


Time Drift

by notoriousjae



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Past Relationship(s), This fic is going to be a weird doozie, Time Travel, Time-drift, and yes you read that Alex ship right, as a warning, it's both, the Sanvers is the past relationship, the future relationship, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousjae/pseuds/notoriousjae
Summary: Cat Grant, a young journalist desperately trying to crawl her way up at the Daily Planet and start her own brand, becomes delightfully sidetracked by an unassuming, friendly lounge singer in a nearby bar. The only problem being that said lounge singer happens to be from the future...and doesn’t remember it. Supercat! Fic/AU *kind of. (With some Alex Danvers/Lois Lane for good measure. Yep. You read that right.)





	1. Blue Jean Baby and the L.A Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time drift is real, people, and it kills one out of three time-traveling superheroes. Okay that's not a real statistic. I'd imagine time drift kills. 
> 
> In all seriousness, I couldn't help but start writing this fic after watching through some DC Legends, the idea of time drift sticking with me. And given my ship as of lately...this fic was born. Just a fun side-project to my other fic because I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> The song in this chapter:
> 
>  **[Tiny Dancer](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&url=%23&ved=0ahUKEwib3-b8hKTZAhWo34MKHXiwCS8Qxa8BCCcwAQ&usg=AOvVaw0VTJzWxrN8ZFOD4xbU2nov)** \- Elton John

Exhaustion sets down shoulders in a way Cat Grant absolutely refuses to show--thank God for shoulderpads, at least--sighing as she strides down the streets of Metropolis, ignoring the usual hustle and bustle of cars and music (who the fuck invented boomboxes, anyways?) as she makes her way down the street, an impatient hand pushing open a red door, eyes slitting as she pushes into the faint, smoky residue of a bar.

 _Clark’s._ Cute. Maybe that’s why Lois has such a little crush on this place. Hopefully the inside is as charming but not _nearly_ as folksy, because today feels like the day for a nice, neat _entire bottle_ of hard liquor.

It’s a small, dingy little place on the corner of one of the more questionable streets of Metropolis (the sort of place she hasn’t frequented since she gave up the delusion of Perry ever giving her any of the important beats, at all, deciding to work on making her _own_ news, instead; not that it’s all that hard with all those vigilantes as of late) and the inside is larger than the outside facade would ever hint towards. Like some kind of bar Narnia, opening up to red lights and natural wood highlighting a stage of red, a crowd of huddled, (likely regular) fans around the small little rickety stage. Cat’s fairly certain she’s seen strippers on larger stages--in more visible places, even, given the smoke curling up her lungs--and when she inhales it smells like gin and nicotine and regret.

Oh, yes. No wonder Lois likes this place--that girl has a lot of regrets and Cat is certain this is high up on her list next to whatever caked-on foundation she uses.

But there’s music--live music, even, that doesn’t sound half bad--and when Cat’s heels click along the dipping floors she can’t hear them. It tastes like anonymity and she’s not sure the last time she had that or the next time she will and suddenly, Cat doesn’t mind the small little dive bar, at all, because not a single person looks up at her when she enters, all eyes on that small little stage. But the rest of it seems _horrible._

She’s not sure why Lois would suggest this place, at all, with those bright, obnoxiously knowing claims of good music--Jazz bars were so hard to find, let alone one with a decent singer--and Cat’s already determined that this is an awful fucking idea by the time she drops a briefcase down at the foot of a bar, kicking up in heels next to some smiling Jim who’s sizing her up like a piece of meat.

She’s had enough of men, today, given Perry’s ultimatum and Clark’s bumbling apology and she’s ready to just say fuck it _all--_

Until she hears it.

The music shifts and sways, one song hedging into another. There’s the faintest trill of a piano in the corner--a holler from the man next to her practically piercing an attentive eardrum and Cat has half a mind to risk the lawsuit and shove him out of his chair--and brows barely knit when she places the tune. It’s not much of a jazz bar if someone is singing _Tiny Dancer_ , is it? But no one here seems to mind, at all, and it’s curious how the whole bar quiets. Cat’s apparently strode in during one of the last songs of this set, tonight, and curious eyes take in the sight of hunched shoulders over that piano across the way for the first time, smoke hanging in the room like a parting mist forming a halo around blue eyes like some kind of dream sequence from _Grease_ \--watching with a small hint of surprise as a young woman pulls down the tip of microphone by the piano, not stopping playing for a moment as she does.

The girl must be in her early twenties-- _must_ be with that flawless skin and wide, wide smile that she could see from miles away--and Cat, who’s grabbed her briefcase, ready to just go take out her day’s frustration at getting _nowhere_ into the bottom of a bottle at a regular bar, stops.

Just like everyone else in this bar. Just like all of Metropolis might, just for a moment, at the sound of her voice. It’s a little melodramatic, but it seems even more fitting when the girl laughs, something sweet and gentle, a voice like some sort of freakishly kind _honey_ \--calm and light and gentle--and Cat’s hand splays out over the bar, intent to listen, stopped in her tracks just like the rest of them.

“Ladies and gentlemen we’ve arrived at that time of the night where I actually take a break--I know, I know,” The singer practically coos to the sound of many a distressed voice in the bar, winking towards one patron as she continues to play, “I hate going, too. Trust me. So I would _shamelessly_ like to remind you before I go--you know I hate peddling, detest it, but there’s a tip jar right here, underneath me, and I would like to take the time to thank you all again, tonight, for providing me with the tips to support my dear sister’s drinking habit, which this bar has solely been responsible for funding. The rest of the money will be put towards my therapy bills dealing with that very, very sad fact.”

There’s a few spattered laughs as she continues, hands shifting along chords, a faint hum in the back of her throat.

“I’m kidding. Alex is great, everyone here loves her, right?” There’s a cheer and that girl’s smile turns genuine and quite, “Really, though, thank you everyone. A _serious_ reminder that the majority of your contributions go to the Metropolis orphanage and I love you all, thank you so much for having me, tonight.”

Cat’s eyebrows raise, a little curious--that ever present journalist skeptical that any of a starving artist’s tips would go to any charity--elbow resting on the bar as she listens to the girl seamlessly transition into song, like she’s done this a thousand times before.

It’s likely that she has.

 _“Blue jean baby--”_ The girl’s hands are emphatic--untrained--and it reminds Cat of the way a tutor used to snap a ruler by her fingers when she was a child, what feels like a lifetime ago. “ _L.A lady, seamstress for the band.”_ But the girl’s voice...it’s something else. It’s something unassuming and kind, grating at the edges, floating above the line of quick fingers. “ _Pretty eyes--pirate smile--you’ll marry a music man.”_ There’s a little more of a trill, there, and the crowd cheers as the girl’s shoulders roll, leaning into the microphone with a spreading smile, but those eyes close underneath the lights and Cat leans closer, watching this small little blonde in a dress captivate the world like it was something she was made to be--a spectacle happy to reveal itself underneath dim smoke and in this small little dive bar that should be too small to keep a hold on that big voice. “ _Ballerina, you must have seen her. Dancing in the sand. And now she’s in me--always with me--”_ And the breath catches in Cat’s throat, smoke blinked out of an unsure gaze, when the girl looks up and their eyes meet.

And this stranger--this small little, unknown singer in an unknown bar that Cat was five seconds of storming out of--blinks like there’s a hint of recognition there, before it floats away underneath the weight of a blinding smile. “ _Tiny dancer in my head.”_

It’s nice, is what Cat tells herself--the _song_ is nice--and that’s the reason why she stays glued to her bar stool for far longer than she ever should have without even thinking to order a drink, listening to an encore and quietly pulling out the few dollars she’s kept on hand out of her purse with it. For charity.

Just for charity.

Her mood is quiet--calm--until the singer leaves and she’s left with the meatsack next to her, who immediately remembers he has balls and apparently wants to use them, tonight, seizing the chance to hit on her, not getting a single hint.

“Hey, sexy, are you a big toe?” He’s slurring and short and _balding_ and Cat is suddenly very unsure why she doesn’t have a drink in her hand, if just for the joy of throwing it in his face, “Because I’d like to bang you on every piece of furniture I--”

“Listen, _Napoleon_ \--” She snaps but there’s suddenly a hand curling around the man’s shoulders, pushing him back and away from Cat like they’ve done this a thousand times.

And maybe that’s true, too.

“Nick,” It’s a smooth, light voice--higher than the singing voice was, but just as smooth--and Cat blinks, turning up to see no other than Piano Girl--Tiny Little Dancer--herself, who’s looking down at the short little smurf with this almost freakish mix of patience, sharpness, and kindness. It shouldn’t be possible, especially not in a city like this, but here the girl is, smiling without a care in the world down at a creep. “Buddy, what have we said about hitting on women when they’re out of your league? Not that anyone’s out of your league, but we _worked_ on this.” She pats his chest and the man sags, shoulders hanging like the useless meathooks they are. “You’re going to get out there--you’re gonna get on the playing field and grab the...what did we say?”

“Bulls by the horns?” He (Nick, apparently) mopes, face sagging.

“Bulls by the horns.” She snaps, “Right, that. Horns--but with _respect_ , and not grabbing women’s...you know.” A hand waves in front of his face, pulling the man around to face her as she pats his cheek, “Anything. Not grabbing women or hitting on women or being creepy. Remember?”

“Yeah,” The apparent Nick sighs and sulks and the singer just slides his drink away with a sharp look to the bartender, who raises his hands in something close to defense, “I _remember_. No means no.”

“Very good, Nick.” And she beams down at him like he’s in fucking second grade and Cat has to look around to remember where in the world she is before glaring at the girl, “Scotty, you want to call Nick a cab?”

“Already called. It’s outside.” The bartender calls from around the corner and Nick grumbles before the girl hands him his coat--even helps him put it on--and pats his shoulder like she really is sending him off to the elementary school slide he likely drunkenly crawled out of five minutes prior.

“Bye, Nick.”

“Yeah, yeah, bye-bye, birdy.” Nick grumbles before he stumbles out of the door and the apparent _birdy_ steals his seat, elbows resting on a bar and offering a wide, nearly sheepish smile up to Cat.

“Sorry about that. This bar has a lot of regulars and I keep telling them not to scare away the women, but they just...really do not do the listening thing so well sometimes.” The girl offers, that same easy smile on her lips and Cat’s really not sure why she hasn’t left a good thirty minutes, ago, instead waving a wrist.

“Most men don’t, they try too hard to listen through their dicks.” It’s a certain truth and the girl laughs at it, bright and gentle, and Cat watches, just for a moment, how the hair falls in front of her eyes before nodding towards the now-empty stage. “You were good up there.” Piano fingers push hair behind an ear as the girl, who apparently was fine and confident onstage, blushes underneath the faint lights reflected through the dim smoke covering the bar, nose ducking as the smile transforms into something quieter.

How Metropolis hasn’t ate this girl alive, yet, is anyone’s guess, and is something Cat doesn’t feel qualified to answer.

“Thank you. Oh,” She waves a hand towards the bartender when Cat leans forward, again, rightfully assuming she’ll order a drink. “Let me guess, and don't worry this isn't that kind of...power play guy thing that people like to do in bars. I just really like guessing,” The girl smiles, wagging a finger down towards tapping nails and raising eyebrows and suddenly Cat has no idea why she's even entertaining having the singer here, at all, save for those eyes and...that smile isn't all that bad, either. That smile is something she could certainly get used to. It doesn’t hurt that when the girl crosses her legs, her dress skims just a little higher above a knee. Maybe Cat can stay for a drink or two, after all. “Dry martini, two olives.”

“That's a safe bet.” Dark eyes slit and there's a light laugh behind those painted, young lips, and Cat might be a little annoyed when the bartender immediately goes to make it. “And what if I say you're wrong?”

“Oh, pfft,” And she smiles, a hint of a head shaking as the girl leans forward, hand falling to rest right by Cat's on a clean bar in such a brazen show of almost familiarity--comfortability in the girl’s own skin, perhaps--that a manicure curls into the lines of a palm. A manicure that isn’t nearly as perfect as it should be; she really does need to get a touch up before the interview tomorrow--she simply hasn't had the time--but instead she finds herself sitting here. Waiting for something--someone-- she doesn't even have a name for. “Since I'm wrong like 90% of the time, I wouldn't be surprised.”

And oh, this girl is humble and a little charming and Cat rolls her eyes, determined to not be affected.

“So you just like wasting your money on the wrong drinks?”

“I’m a singer, any money I have is considerably _finite_ and usually doesn’t have more than one zero attached to a number when you try to count it, so believe me when I say it’s not a waste if I get the opportunity to buy you a drink and...wow. Oh, wow,” The girl raises a hand to hide a faint laugh behind lips and long fingers, “I'm so sorry, that sounded like an awful come on. I mean...hit on.” Blonde brows knit a little like she’s trying to think of what the phrase might be, “That's not how I meant it, really. I just mean that I...have a feeling about you. That that's your drink, and I'd be honored to be right.”

Cat bites the edge of her cheek to hide a smile because this girl doesn't seem all that worried about it sounding like a flirt, at all. And it's open and free and careless in a way she hasn't felt since France--maybe a little intoxicating, even--and a reporter leans into it just as much as a woman does, a husk of a near-flirting laugh of her own on the edge of smiling lips.

“You look so excited I'd almost hate to tell you it isn't.” Cat offers, eyes bright and the girl just leans a little closer, almost knowingly.

“That's because I'm right, isn't it? Not because you're throwing me a bone.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself for a girl who only gets 10% right.”

“I sound awfully sure of myself for someone who got _yours_ right.” The girl challenges and Cat, most surprisingly to herself, laughs, and doesn't understand why this stranger looks so fond at the sight of it.

But hell if this girl doesn’t just look like...that type, too. The rare breed of person to just be happy that someone _else_ is happy--how nauseating and naive and something Cat decidedly does not have time for--and she should really just roll eyes and turn away and order something else in an utter powerplay.

So no one is more _further_ surprised than Cat, herself, that when the drink is set in front of her with a faint clink, she tucks it up with knowing fingers and sure eyes, not looking away from blue the moment her lips curl around the rim of a glass,.

“If you start to sound pompous I'm going to push you out of that stool and strut right on out of here.” Cat threatens but the girl just smiles that quiet, happy smile and drums her fingers along the edge of a bar with a laugh. “If there’s one thing I hate more than out-of-season clothes, it’s _I-told-you-so’s_.”

“I'm not that kind of girl, promise. I'm just glad I was right.”

“And what's yours?” Eyes slit a little in mirth, “Something fruity?”

“Oh, uh...I don’t really drink.” The girl laughs, nose barely scrunching as she leans up, hand sliding just a little closer to Cat’s wrist.

“The first person in Metropolis that wants to be sober onstage. You don’t sound very fun at a karaoke party.”

“My sister,” The girl leans forward like she’s telling her a great secret--an amazing talent--like she might be able to fly or go faster than a speeding bullet, “ _Happens_ to tell me that I put the Kara in kara-oke. Which is my name. Kara. I think she said that anyways, once. That I was good with karaoke, not...my name. Though she’s said it several times and--I should...really shut up.”

“Probably.” Cat smiles, “You’re a little flighty, aren’t you.”

“Very. Sorry,” The girl--Kara’s, Cat cements the name deep in her chest--lips perk up a little bit, “Performance high. So, um...I see you’re going the _Working Girl_ route? That’s a nice briefcase.”

“Ah, yes. It’s horrible and unfashionable but, men’s world,” Cat hums, finger running along the rim of a glass as she plucks an olive, popping it in her mouth. There's no small amount of pleasure when she sees Kara follows every inch of its descent.

“Well, you make it _look_ fashionable. But something tells me you’re the kind of woman that could do that with a paper bag. Hey, um--hey Scott?” The girl leans over the bar, adjusting glasses with a thousand watt smile that makes Cat’s hand still along the glass, a hint of a smile tucking the corners of her lips. “Can I get a club soda?”

“Oh, for you Danvers? How about I pull the moon down, huh? I’ll fly on up there and get it, myself.” She laughs a little too loud, swatting his arm.

“Hah, Scott. You kidder. Like people can fly. Anyways um,” Kara clears her throat, shifting to lean back on a stool, flashing her own thousand-watt towards Cat with a small shake of a head, thumb pointing back towards the bartender who immediately moves to fill the glass, “Kidder. So...work around here, or in town on business?”

“Both. I actually work for the _Daily Planet_ but...I’ve been going _out of_ town on meetings.” Cat would normally leave it at that and she must just be surprised that the girl hasn’t seen the press releases, already--because every other rag seems intent on turning into paparazzi about her, lately, teeth at the woman who’s biting the hand that fed her to try to start a company in the same field--but there’s something almost warm and familiar in that sunny smile when she leans forward, like Kara’s fully intent to hang on her every word. It’s a little intoxicating. Maybe she'll have a room of people looking at her that way, someday. For right now, she's happy for that room to be one small, unknowing girl. “I’m starting my own company.”

“Oh, wow. Your own company? That’s amazing. I was kidding about the _Working Girl_ thing earlier, but it seems like a good look. What do you do?”

“I’m a journalist.”

“Oh. I um...I used to think I wanted to be a journalist.” A hand waves and there's a hint of sadness at the edges of her eyes, like there's a lifetime of stories she doesn't voice with one single word, “I’m a much better singer. I’ve always admired people that stick to it.”

“I would think singing would be harder than journalism.” Cat curiously notes.

“Well I haven’t actually made it, if you haven’t noticed. I just sing here at nights and...around at a few clubs. A few private events. With journalism, you…” There’s almost a wistful sigh, there, and Cat can't remember the last person who actually still believed in anything with such a calm little hopeful smile. “You make a difference. You help people--”

“When you’re actually allowed to write about something that makes a difference.” Cat cuts off and she misses having that sense of utter devotion and delusion in the girl’s eyes. Cat used to have it once. The business was quick to suck it out of her in a few short years. Now her wrists were all bones and no meat (a fact that unfortunately delights her mother) and her heart is usually a scratching little pitter patter that she isn't even sure is there, anymore. She used to marvel at how tall the buildings were, now she spends nights wondering how long it would take for all of them to set fire. But, really, she hasn't _lost_ anything. She's just become a realist. “They’ve had me on _gossip_ for the past two years. I cut my way up from my _knuckles_ at that job.” A huff out of her nose, “I was an assistant, you know. Very undignified work--”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think assistants are important.” Kara hedges, hand raising up to shuffle glasses.

“Not when all you do is sling coffee.” Cat snipes, “And then I got my shot. I was so...excited. And even if it was just in fashion I figured I would work my way up, so I did...up to the gossip section. And gossip? It’s like the epitome of high school, only I’m the bitch behind everyone’s backs sharing their worst secrets. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy spreading the truth, but it just feels...so pointless. It’s like I’m still working fashion, only wondering about where these celebrities drop their Loubiton heels when they hop into bed instead of _just_ talking about the heels. I mean, yes, Demi’s heels looked fabulous last week and she's likely sleeping with that _idiot_ but who the _fuck_ cares when we’re sitting on a political precipice, teetering on the edge of war with--” And this Kara girl is looking at her with something close to fondness in her eyes, sipping on this club soda that’s magically appeared, chin resting on knuckles as she watches her. And Cat realizes she has no idea how long she's even been talking. “What?”

“Nothing I just--” Kara laughs a little and looks away and when she looks back, Cat gets the distinct impression that there might be something more, though she has no earthly clue what.

“Are you okay?” Cat's not sure why she even asks--what about this girl has compelled her--and when blue eyes give her their sole attention, again, her skin burns and a tongue darts out over dry lips to keep from catching fire, herself.

“You’re just so...passionate about your job. It’s a little fascinating. I don’t mean to stare, it’s just...it’s nice. To see a woman that passionate and I--I’m sorry what...what did you say your name was?” Kara sounds almost a little pressing--almost a little _breathless_ \--and Cat shakes it off.

“I didn’t.” Cat’s smile spreads and this girl laughs, something small and quiet and almost secret as her fingers curve around a glass, leaning down to shake her head before looking back up and her eyes are so blue Cat’s ashamed to admit, for a moment--just a moment--she might forget whatever the hell her parents called her when she popped out of the womb, ready to take on the world.

Probably because her mother has  _always_ called her Kitty.

“Oh, well that explains me not knowing it.” Kara’s teeth tuck up the corner of her lip, “So...Ms... Secret, if you’re so unhappy with journalism...something tells me you’re not the type of person to take that sitting down. Is that what your company is?”

“Almost. It’s...not much, right now.” Cat admits, hand wistfully swirling the drink, eyes flicking out to a familiar city for only a breath before turning back, “But it’s the idea of something more.”

“An idea is a powerful thing.” Kara smiles, “Hope is even more powerful. You should never lose it.”

“Well…” Cat shakes her head, opening her mouth to instantly protest and suddenly fingers are around her wrist and she stills, looking up into sincere, smiling eyes, that gaze intense and so serious that she suddenly doesn’t feel like they’re in the corner of a bar, at all.

“No, I mean it.” Kara runs a thumb along her pulse and Cat’s shoulders stiffen, breath quivering against her lips, but the singer is seemingly oblivious and Cat, for once, doesn’t even begin to know how to look away, “Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.”

“And who said that?” Cat’s eyebrows arch.

“Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.”

“Well the last thing I expected from a _not-_ jazz singer at a rundown bar in the middle of nowhere was a _Faust_ quote.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that that sounded very much like a back-handed insult and go back to inspiring you, thank you very much.” The girl snipes and Cat smirks because there’s apparently a little bit of backbone hidden behind that dazzling, charming smile, after all.

“You don’t even know what my company is.” Cat points out.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re passionate, and you look like you’re someone who wants to change the world and you _can._ You can change the world. An idea--a single person--a driven, passionate person, can change the world. Someone told me, once, that hope is one of the most important things someone can cling to. And it doesn’t matter if you’re...you’re a fashion journalist or a gossip rag or a woman trying to change the world on her own, you can do it, if you believe in yourself--and believe in helping people--they’ll believe in you. So you look like someone worth believing in.”

It’s an impassioned speech and Cat watches her--enraptured, now, by the way hair hangs in front of blue eyes and memorizes the feeling of fingers curling around a wrist--and...smiles, fascinated.

“That person sounds very wise. Who--”  

“She was, I think.” There’s a hint of a nervous laugh and when Kara removes her fingers, Cat’s not sure her wrist has ever felt quite so cold. “A...very powerful woman who I had the pleasure of knowing for a little while. But I, um...it’s the damndest thing,” Her eyes skim along the edge of the bar, brows knitting for a moment, “I can’t remember her name.”

“Maybe the club soda is going to your head.” Cat offers and Kara’s smile is almost hauntingly sad at the edges, like a story waiting to be told and her fingers itch to tug out the pen from her briefcase and tell it.

It'd be a nice change of pace from gossip.

“You could help me out and tell me your name, instead. So I can learn something new to replace forgetting something old. Or,” She sighs a little bit, leaning back on the bar stool, “Leave me in misery and come back for another drink tomorrow, since I’m getting a very not-subtle cue over your shoulder--” Kara points and Cat laughs when she turns around to see a waving, very disgruntled man staring daggers and pointing to his watch, “That break time is up.”

“Come back tomorrow?” Cat’s eyebrows raise, “Trying to turn me into an alcoholic, Ms…” She remembers the bartender, finger flicking down to a club soda, “Danvers?”

“No, alcoholics don’t tip.” But her smile is charming and bright and Cat wonders just how long she can stay and listen to her sing without it being too creepy. “But since this one’s on me,” Blue eyes shoot a pointed look to the bartender, who shrugs, and Cat blinks in surprise, “The tipping doesn’t matter. I never turn down nice company and I would love to hear all about that business of yours, Ms...Secret.”

And with a small wink that’s all of the time Kara Danvers has, disappearing behind a backway door behind the stage and Cat waits until she’s on the forefront of it, a piano trilling through the distance and a laugh bubbling on Kara's lips when someone hoots her name as heels inevitably click along the small, red-lit stage. A little crowd has gathered in the front, Cat realizes, all practically swooning at her smile, and before she can think better of it, still-weary shoulders roll as the least powerful woman in Metropolis leans up to that bartender--Scott--and listens to Kara Danvers very effectively charm the hell out of the small lot of them.

“Scott,” Cat begs him forward, finger curling and he materializes with a charming smile, “Give me two more.”

“Going to stay awhile, eh?” And he looks almost knowing in a way that Cat detests, eyes slitting in response, “Hey, it’s alright. Why do you think there’s a crowd here, at all? She’s got charm in spades. Still want the same thing? She usually gets it wrong.”

“Actually…” And she thinks of the way Kara’s finger had curled along a glass after she’d ordered it, sharing a small smirk that's lost amidst the smoke and music, “Let’s try that first round, again.”

She doesn’t have to be on-air for a few more hours, anyways. She hardly needs the liquid courage but...maybe a little pep-sing won’t hurt.

So Cat leans back against this ratty little barstool and watches this Kara Danvers sing into a small little dingy club, and waits until their eyes meet to smile.

\--

It’s nearly three AM when keys rattle and feet drag all across the room and a pillow is adamantly--adamantly--smothered over eyes before that body gets any ideas about waking her. The AC unit rattles and quivers like a smoker who went cold turkey and Alex Danvers is burning up-- _dying_ \--and the fact that they only have one bed is killing her. Because Kara radiates heat like she’s a fucking supernova and the last thing she wants after working a twelve-hour shift is to feel hot and sweaty while Kara shivers pitifully because apparently the world is cooler twenty years ago where the sun isn't nearly as bright.

Is it twenty years?

Alex doesn’t even know, anymore.

“Hey, Alex?” Kara’s voice is small as she snuggles into the small bed, comforters tugged over both of their heads the moment she has a chance, a grumble in response as a chin falls to rest on a collarbone. Alex moves to push her off--to take the little bit of her own space that she can--but Kara is adamant, and eventually a body sags, sighing as exhausted arms wrap around a waist.

Hot. She’s so _hot_ , God. Alex is going to filet from the inside out and she tries to shove the indomitable weight off of her with a pitiful little shove until the small curl at the edge of her sister's voice gets to her, like it always does.

“What?” It’s a gruff groan underneath the unbearable weight of a pillow. She hadn’t even had money to cover it with a case when they bought it and she hasn’t bothered, since.

“I met someone, tonight.” It’s a whisper against the scratchy fabric of their comforter and Alex owlishly blinks underneath a mop of brown hair, pushing the pillow off.

“You meet a lot of people. All the time. And then you drag your feet all the way here and crawl into bed with me and pout about how you’re never going to get to tell anyone--”

“I think I knew her.” It’s barely a husk--it’s _sad_ \--and Alex eases up onto elbows at that, a hint of concern overriding the sleep there, covers slipping down both of their shoulders. The sleep and concern mix into a dangerous form of cocktail--worse than the whiskey half-empty by their bedside--and Alex doesn’t even feel the cool air, for a moment. Doesn't even feel the relief of being unburdened by sheets and heat because there's already a chill in her stomach.

“You think you--” A shaky breath, then, like Alex is desperately trying to reach for a word she can’t remember, a sweaty hand sliding up to brush the hair from Kara’s eyes so that she can see her, glad no glasses still her fingers’ descent. “You think you knew her?”

At least some things never change because her sister’s mouth practically unhinges the moment her lips open, a mess of jumbled symbols and furrowed brows trying to screw together a hasty sentence or five.

“She went to get a drink and I...got it for her, and I was right. And she looked so surprised and I remember thinking--it’s so...weird.” Kara swallows, like it seems so important, “To see her with her hair pulled back. And then I stopped and when she looked at me and smiled I just--I saw her. This...this flash. Like a memory, you know--like when sometimes...sometimes you know how we talk about looking at that corner of National City with that huge, unmarked building, before we left? How it feels _familiar_ . But that was it. There was nothing else and she asked me if I was alright and I just--I just _sat_ there Alex, because I tried to think of where I knew her from. _When_ I knew her. I tried to think of what I...who I was. And then I realized that I can’t...I can’t remember anything other than us...us finding this apartment. And I can’t remember why we were looking or who we were and--”

“You...you don’t--” Alex stutters, suddenly not caring about the heat, at all, pulling Kara closer, like a suffocating weight is pressing down both of their shoulders and she doesn’t want her sister to bear it alone, “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I can’t remember, anymore.” Kara swallows, tears thick, a little more pressing--a little more frantic, “I can’t...I can’t remember anymore. Do you?”

“Hey,” Alex’s arms are fully around her in a second, tugging a small body into her arms and shuffling upwards so that shoulders rest against a tattered old wooden headboard, something they’d nailed together with scrap from around the corner. Kara had stained it dark brown like something out of a magazine, but it always looked like it was out of a different time zone, here--like it was out of a magazine that hasn’t become fashionable, yet--but Alex didn’t care, because this was their home. This was their small little slice of life. Kara had beamed, eyes bright and blue like she loved painting--like she was used to painting; like stain had a habit of getting underneath her nails--and had tackled Alex onto the bed with a happy, carefree laugh like they were kids wrestling underneath a blanket fort in a house neither of them remembered.

_It’s like home! Remember, we always talked about moving out and getting our own apartment and it’d be sort of bad like Rent without, you know, the...um...Aids. But we’d have a steady income and a place to live and each other and, well, two out of three isn’t bad, right? We can make this work._

Kara had been breathless and happy but her eyes looked so sad. They're getting sadder by the day.

_We can make this work, Alex. We can’t give up, now. We can’t--_

And Alex might not remember why Kara had said that anymore, either. It's not a good realization to wake up to.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Alex whispers against her brow and Kara buries her nose into a neck, blinking away tears as fingers curl into shoulders. “It’s _okay_.”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember, Alex. I feel like I know her, like...like I _really_ know her and I don’t--”

“Shh.” Alex’s lips brush over her temple again and again, eyes lingering outside the window. “We’ll...we’ll remember. Maybe we’ll…” Her breath quiets as Kara sobs and Alex holds her, head thunking inelegantly back into that same old ratty headboard, tears blinding her vision.

A siren sounds outside and her breath quivers as it leaves, swallowing down as she holds her...sister. Her sister. Her sister who stiffens like she wants to run out into the night and save the world with her bullheadedness and determination, alone, and Alex won’t leave her side.

That might be all she remembers, but...she feels like it’s not the first time her sister’s been all Alex has, and it won’t be the last, and she can do this. Probably.

Be the strong one. She’s got this on lock.

“...remember. Maybe we’ll remember. Maybe we’re just...stressed or...tired or...maybe we’ll remember. We have to remember.”

And fuck it, they’re in this battered down apartment with no heat or food and Kara is warm and sobbing and it’s fucking depressing, so Alex cries, too.

It doesn’t really matter that she doesn’t know why.

“Hey,” Alex asks the important question after they’re both cried out, Kara resting on her shoulder, head peaceful over a quiet heart in a way that lets her know a super ear is listening to the comfort and familiarity of it with every skip and beat. “...was she cute?”

Kara shoves her shoulder and they laugh and curl together on their small little bed, AC rattling to a stop like it’s committed some kind of appliance--is an HVAC unit even an appliance?--suicide. They both fall asleep, like that, Kara shivering and Alex tugging up the comforter over them both despite the sweat that clings to her neck.

In the bleary hours of the morning, all of their curtains drawn wide open (that being one solitary curtain above the dead-ass-AC) Kara drags over their small, shoe-sized television to the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. An impatient hand smacks it three times before it works and Kara turns a knob to flick through static channels until they find a half-clear image that neither one of them feel some freaky kind of deja vu towards.

It’s the news. That's all they've got left, the news and old reruns of gameshows.

“So--” Kara shoves a mouthful of cereal into her mouth, seeming to have no qualms about speaking through it as Alex shrugs on a shirt, frowning down at her bra because the wire’s snapped and she’s definitely going to have to buy another one, soon, whenever they get enough cash to spare. Which apparently is now, Kara beaming up at her as she tosses her a wad of dollar bills.

Under the table. Always under the table.

“Big money, there, lil’ sis. You’re not sleeping with anyone, right? Because that’s a lot of--”

Kara sputters, bowl lowering with a look of indignation and Alex raises her hands in surrender. “Alex! Hey, come on. Like anyone would even--who would even--no!” Her cheeks are flame-red and Alex might find a _little_ bit too much joy in it, wagging her eyebrows until Kara throws a nearby book at her head.

“You’re right, no one would pay you for _that_ bedside manner you bed hog--woah, hey! Hey! Stop throwing stuff, I’ll stop, I’ll stop--” Alex catches the second book with a stuck-out tongue and stops before Kara can threaten to flush all of the alcohol out of the apartment, again. They have a silent agreement, after all. Alex can still buy booze. Kara can still buy books. And as long as Alex drinks all of the booze before Kara can find it she can be a happy alcoholic.

(It's not much of an agreement.)

And occasionally, at night, they’ll spend all of their money at the radioshack across the street for a drawer full of techno-babble for something they don’t even understand, anymore. But old habits die hard.

Another siren and Kara looks down at her milk with sad eyes.

Some old habits die harder than others.

“Hey,” Alex crosses the distance and squats down in front of her, smile spreading and kind, ruffling blonde locks until blue skitters up like a strained, lagging piece of string tied to the end of a car. But Kara smiles, anyways. She always smiles. “What if...what if we go out and canvas, tonight? Like old times.”

“Really?” Kara perks up at that, eyes too full of hope for Alex to think of doing anything else, now, like she's unknowingly lit that string on fire. “I can totally still keep a low-profile and--”

“I know, I know. But no big events, Kara. Remember. We can’t--”

“Change history.” And there’s something in her eyes at that, a quiet question on her lips, “How long...how long until you think we don’t even remember that, Alex? What if we already did it?”

“I don’t know.” Alex admits, shrugging, standing back up to slide into pants. “We could always just...keep writing notes to ourselves. Like _Momento_ without all of the shooting.”

“Great, I can’t remember names, but I remember _Memento_.” Kara flops backwards, cereal bowl rumbling a little as her shoulders hit the bed. “How long until work?”

“I’ve got about an hour to go down there. Hopefully no one cancelled on me, this time. I mean...do you remember phones? Do you remember how nice cell phones are? Not some huge brick that I want to bash my face in with that rich people walk all around the street with--”

“Not really sure we could afford it, anyways, Alex.”

“Yeah, well.” Her hands flick the button, strapping it through jeans that make her look like fucking _Jesse Spano_ and Kara pats her hip in sympathy. “I’ll be back later. Volunteering?”

“You bet.” Kara beams and Alex leans down to kiss her forehead, tugging keys up and hiding a gun underneath her ankle. Some habits definitely die hard. “Gonna come see me, later?”

Teasing and smirking and gladly not having to duck another book:

“You bet.”

An hour later Alex finds out that her job _did_ cancel and she really fucking hates not having a cell phone, feet dragging up every single flight of their shitty apartment complex’s stairs, kicking open the door with a huff. She’s mid-rant about this very fact when she catches sight of Kara sitting there, their small little tv tugged up into her lap like she’s found the goddamned holy grail, eyes wide and spoon hanging out of her mouth.

“Aaaand you’re dead. Is this poltergeist? Did you--”

Kara waves a hand like the maestra of trying to shut her sister the fuck up, Alex slowly coming across rickety floorboards to squat down next to wide eyes.

It’s still the news, but now there’s some fresh-faced reporter on the screen, brought on as a consultant, and Kara slaps her shoulder three times--that’ll bruise--with a mouthful of cheerios and milk, flailing hands towards the screen, nearly spitting it out before she must remember to swallow and breathe.

“Holy crap-balls!”

“Well...that’s a new one. What even is a crapball and--what? What? Jesus-fuck, Kara, stop hittin--” Alex snaps up to grab her sister’s erratic hands, brows knitting as she leans forward to see...blonde hair and sharp eyes and…

Huh. She does look a little familiar. She looks... _really_ familiar.

Hell if Alex knows why.

“That’s her!” Kara coughs a little, shoving her bowl of cereal (probably like the fifth bowl since she left--they probably need more cereal, now, another thing they can't afford) into Alex’s lap, shuffling close to the small little television, hands cupping it as she practically presses her nose against it. Alex, for her part, just starts eating the cereal because that’s the only likelihood, now, that she’ll get any of the food from their apartment before Kara can get it first. “That’s her.” Kara says a little quieter.

“So you think you know her?”

“I know I do.”

“Cat…” Alex squints, trying to read the small little pixelated scroll at the bottom of the screen, popping up underneath an insistent face. It’s a little hard to read through her sister’s shoulder. “Grant?”

“Talking about women’s rights, too. That seems like something she’d be all about and--wow, her hair is longer, isn’t it? I can tell now that it’s down and...and--oh. Oh, _no_ .” Kara’s hand snaps up to her mouth, tv resting against knees. “Oh, _no no no._ ”

“What?” Alex’s eyes slit, bowl dropping as she takes in familiar blue, very, very guilty eyes. “ _What_.”

“I think…” Kara winces and lowers her hands and offers the smallest little half-shouldered, sheepish shrug. “I think I, um…” A cleared throat, “I might be a little into her?”

Alex just sighs. Because she feels like she doesn’t like that at all and from the look on her sister’s face Kara knows and it’s suddenly way, way too late for this, even if it’s morning.

“I’m going back to bed.”

She takes the cereal with her despite the very indignant squeal from the floor-- _hey!_ \--before Kara just turns back towards the tv, a frown settled on her face. It’s not like the bed is far away from the television, anyways. It’s not like their apartment is larger than a cat’s litterbox.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Alex crawls back under the covers before she remembers that it’s way too hot for them, shoving them away and eating a few more spoonfuls. Kara plops onto her legs like a restless, overzealous dog, plucking up the bowl from where it was left off the moment Alex stops. “Stop thinking about doing something really fucking stupid. I hear it. I _hear_ you thinking stupid things.”

“Pfft…” Kara murmurs and Alex just throws the cover over a blonde head, instead, ignoring the way it bobs with another spoonful (her sister has great priorities) before it's tugged away. “I totally won’t.” Alex even pretends to not hear the mumbled _probably_ that follows that statement as her breath evens amongst the soft chatter of a spoon in a bowl and Cat Grant’s voice, certain and even (and young?) in their small apartment.

Cat...Grant?

She tries not to focus on the thought that they’re fucked when she doesn’t even know why. She might even be good at it, until she squints an eye open and sees Kara looking at that screen with so much lost, raw admiration that Alex’s stomach ties itself into knots.

Nope, nope, they’re definitely fucked. Low profile her ass.

“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you.” Alex groans into the pillow when she feels the bed dip and the bowl deposited in the sink, a happy kiss presses on the top of a comforter-jostled as keys jangle.

“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Kara chirps before the front door slams and Alex flops onto her back, sighing at their ceiling, the little AC finding this the perfect moment to rattle to life for all of two seconds before sputtering to a complete stop.

“Oh yeah,” She commiserates, reaching for that bottle of whiskey and glaring when she finds it’s suddenly empty, her sister probably draining the last of it down the sink, “We’re fucked.”


	2. Sugar Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat is never following a single suggestion of Lois Lane’s ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd shoot off a quick update pre-Valentine's Day because I likely wouldn't have been able to get another one out this week, if I hadn't. I haven't really picked a set date for updates for this one (hell, I haven't really for my other fic, either, tho, so) so hopefully I'll get another one out soon. 
> 
> I did go ahead and add a link to the song for last chapter, and I'm going to start leaving a link to songs at the top of the fic if there's any featured in that chapter just because, well...it feels like a nice thing to do. 
> 
> Because maybe you, too, are stuck in the 90's with our gals here, and don't have the ability to Google or something. What do I know? I just work here. It feels courteous.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and everyone have a nice Valentine's! :) 
> 
> **[Take The A-Train ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZEK8dvfXuQ) ** \- Written by: Billy Strayhorn; Performed by: Diana Krall (and very capable band)

“That’s quite the shiner you’ve got there, doctor.” Lois leans elbows on the small little diner table, eyes bright as she brings a steaming--steaming, always steaming, Alex isn’t sure Lois knows how to consume liquids any other way unless they’re actual liquid magma--cup of coffee to her lips.

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.” Alex sighs, finger brushing underneath her nose as she leans closer, fingers curling around her own mug, nose wrinkling in mirth as she inhales the faint scent of roasted coffee. “No mark on him, whatsoever. He’s absolutely fine and took my pride with him.”

Lois laughs but leans a little closer, as well, tongue barely darting out over her lips as she does.

“Rumor has it by fine you mean he’s locked up. North of the state, facing charges for kidnapping.”

“That’s a creative rumor mill you have.” Alex hums, thumb dipping along the rim before she lifts it up, a content sigh at the warmth because her throat is drier than the heat, outside. Metropolis reminds her of the years of her mother going through menopause, constantly changing from one temperature to the next. The summer brings steam off of the asphalt like Lois’ mug, unforgiving and harsh, and the winter will coat the streets in a seamless sheet of white.

What feels like a few months ago, Kara had dragged Alex out into the streets with stomping, parading steps like a gazelle hopping through the piles of endless white, making her fleeting mark on the world, and when Alex threw a snowball at her face, her sister had dumped an entire car worth of it on her head, sputtering in indignation.

They’d laughed until Alex couldn’t feel her toes, anymore, Kara tugging her against her chest until she was warm, again, because it was practically as cold outside as it was in their apartment, and at least in the street, huddled against the warmth that never stopped to radiate from her sister’s shoulders, they could trace the stars like they were kids and not women whose years were slowly starting to etch into the marble of their faces.

When Alex asked Kara if she remembered the time they took on their entire school in the epic snowball fight of ‘07, Kara had just nodded with a faraway look in her eyes, a faint wrinkle creasing between her brows that let Alex know she hadn’t really remembered, at all, but laughed all the same.  

It’s a look Alex is seeing more and more of, lately.

Alex only remembers what her mother looks like because they were able to boot up Kara’s phone, last year, and every once in a while she steals it to flip through pictures like a drunken game of _Guess, Who?_ , hands tugging over a notebook and writing down the random tidbits of memories she _does_ hold onto floating around her skull, pieces to a puzzle she no longer remembers buying. Sometimes Kara will swipe through the phone with her, but most nights her sister will itch piano fingers against her shoulders and tug her out into the night underneath well-worn, stitched leather and the weight of a familiar helmet, and as much as she verbally rebels, Alex has found solace in it.

She's found solace in anonymity. 

About as much solace as she has in the fact that Metropolis is now hotter than the sun and, in a few months, it’ll be cold again, and she’ll go from wanting to shove her sister out from under sheets to curling on top of her underneath every single piece of clothing they own.

Some things stay the same.

And judging from the photographs, the sharp look in Lois’ eyes will always be one of them.

“Why’d you ask me here, Lo’?” Alex sighs into the mug, “Not that I don’t appreciate the free coffee and free lunch--”

“Who said anything about free lunch?”

“Oh, thanks, I’d love some. A sandwich would be just _great_ , Lois, thank you.” Alex smirks and Lois rolls her eyes, the din of the small shop threatening to overwhelm them, which is likely why they’re here and not somewhere private. “Unless you’re trying to twist my arm, again, in which case, like I told you _last year_ and the year before that, no comment, and I’d rather go eat out of the dumpster than sell my sister to you for five cents.”

“Can the over-protective mama-bear act, Doc.” Lois raises up a hand and Alex leans a little closer underneath the seriousness of her gaze, “Not with me.”

“So this isn’t about catching up while you subtly pry me for information--”

“If I really wanted to pry, I’d just go ask Kara how her day was and she’d spill in five seconds.” Lois notes and Alex shrugs a shoulder, because Lois isn’t exactly wrong, sighing as weary shoulders slide back in the booth.  

“So you actually really did invite me out to catch up and chit-chat?” Alex is a little skeptical of that, “Then I really am going to need that free sandwich.” But there’s a hint of a smile on her lips, head hanging for only a moment before she slides closer, “What do you know? About the girl.” They never learn much once they save them and this is about as chitchatty as it gets.

“She was an orphan, just like the last one the... _vigilantes_ rescued. Only, this time it’s making it in the papers--”

“What?” Alex’s spine snaps straight up. “You--you both know how dangerous that is for--”

Lois just raises a hand, continuing.

“Because Perry White has been dealing with _Cat Grant_ all week.” Her voice is firm, unwavering, and Alex sucks in a sharp breath at the name she’s starting to hear more and more, not liking the taste of familiarity of it one bit. “She’s putting pressure on him, going on some kind of a personal vendetta rampage. She thinks that _The Planet_ has a right to put the spotlight on the fact that orphans are disappearing--that it's our duty to put a spotlight on it, because otherwise it will keep happening. And--”

“Lois.” Alex sighs, running a hand over her face at the warning tone because she _hears_ it coming.

“And she’s not _wrong_ , Alex.”

“You know why running a story on the kidnappings is a bad idea. And _not_ ,” Alex hisses, leaning closer, but intent to look the part of furious friend, not overzealous contact, “Because of the press finally getting a hold of two vigilantes that _need_ to stay hidden.” Lois’ lips thin and her hair falls in front of dark eyes, resolute, and Alex hates that all journalists get that same look in their eye when they think they’re right--that same tight-jawed consternation. “Ignoring Flamebird and Nightwing , putting a public eye on the disappearances isn’t going to stop them and you _know_ that.”

“Al--”

“No. You _know_ that.” Alex snaps, voice a low rumble, “They’re going to keep taking kids--keep doing whatever the _fuck_ they’re doing with them--and all a story about it is going to do is make it harder for us to _find_ them. Which it already is.”

“Not if we put faces to the names.”

Silence stretches between them and Alex lets out a sharp, cool laugh, searching Lois’ face for any hope of a joke--a cruel one, at that--her own jaw hardening at what she finds.

“You’re seriously willing to risk their privacy?”

“At a chance of helping them? I don’t know.” Lois sighs and there it is--the faintest crack at the edges--her brows barely knitting as she looks out the window into the streets, the steam from her mug tempered by the cool AC of the diner. “I really don't know. I found out this morning and I'm still trying to...wrap my head around it. The truth is, Cat’s trying to blow the lid off of it--and not for the _Daily Planet_ , but for her own start-up, that mag she’s trying to acquire.”

“The...what was it--”

“The Trib. It's not a done acquisition yet, but God knows Cat's trying, and she thinks this might be the ticket. She thinks the ring is National.” Lois supplies, looking back towards Alex with a sympathetic shrug at what must greet her there.

Alex isn’t sure what her own face looks like, but she’s sure it’s not happy.

“That’s because it _is_ National.” Alex snaps, “Shit, Cat Grant is a lot of things but she’s not an idiot.” That much she feels like she knows and it gets kind of old, really, trying to piece together consequences of a present for a future she doesn’t remember and she wishes there was something significantly stronger in her coffee. Or less coffee and just all whiskey. “So let me get this straight, she wants to run the story to make some kind of name for herself--”

“I don’t...know if I’d go that far, Danvers.” Lois is a little gentler, despite the tight grip her hands have on her mug, and Alex doesn’t have time for it, jaw working as she thinks it through. “You have to remember we’re journalists--most of us, Cat included, are just trying to make a difference. Even if she’s a bitch about it.”

“So she wants to run the story for _whatever_ reason and is determined to do it, which means Perry has to pick up the story before she can. Bullshit politics.”

“Says someone who used to be second in command at a secret government organization specializing in cover-ups,” Lois grumbles into her coffee but Alex hears her, eyes slitting as she barely resists the urge to kick her under the table.

“Yeah, you’re definitely buying me a--”

“Fine, fine,” Lois stands, raising her hands as she offers a thin-lipped, ever-pleasant reporter’s smile, “I’m going to buy your fucking sandwich. Don’t enjoy watching me walk away, too much.”   

“Lois,” Alex sighs, catching one of the raised hands before she can get too far, conflict easing into something familiar and friendly, feeling Lois’ heartbeat underneath her fingers because that’s where her fingers naturally go, anytime she reaches for a wrist. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Yeah. Well,” Lois doesn’t move to pull away, her smile a little gentler--a little more genuine--and Alex suddenly wonders how she drinks her coffee so scalding hot without burning her lips, “While you’re busy watching each other’s backs, _someone_ has to watch your fronts, right? _Doc?_ ” Alex smiles as she lets her go, easing into the booth and looking out towards the streets with a heavy sigh. “And you know I love Clark, but...he’s been a little busy, lately.”

“Yeah.” Alex’s smile thins a little because she _knows_ , shaking her head, imagining a nose pressed up against the glass of a television like the kid in _A Christmas Story_. “Stuck here and Cat Grant is slowly becoming our biggest problem.”

“Preaching to the choir.” Lois pipes up, moving to the counter, Alex gathering their things while she does. It doesn’t take long and when Lois comes back with her favorite--knowing and a little bit of a peace offering, eyes intent on not being a shot messenger--Alex leans forward to brush lips over the high-rise of a cheek.

That’s where all the heat from the coffee goes--it settles underneath the woman’s skin like a simmering, crackling fire--and Alex offers a good-natured smile as she tucks the sandwich underneath her arm.

“This is going to make your little business a lot more interesting, Alex. _Both_ of them.” Lois gently notes, quiet and serious and concerned in a way Alex has never been comfortable with, a terse nod the only reaction she gives, “Hey, I’m serious. Just...you two be careful out there, alright?”

“We always are.” The din of the diner hasn’t stopped for a second, both of them forgotten amidst the ordinary lives of Metropolis’ citizens, and the afternoon sun glints along Lois’ hair when Alex idly brushes a strand of it from her eyes, hands shoving into pockets as she nods again, serious and smiling. “Now who’s the mama-bear? Come on, I’ll walk you back to your car.”

“Says the woman walking me back to a car that’s right down the street.”

Alex just shakes her head and looks down at the sandwich, wondering how much Kara has seriously rubbed off on her over the years because she has half a mind to devour it in one gulp to keep from retorting.

“You know,” Lois continues when they make it to the car with no incident, “Gala’s in three weeks. If they do run the story…” Eyebrows raise, arms casually hung over the metal rim of a door. “I could always use a date.”

Alex takes a bite out of the sandwich like McGruff took (takes?) a bite out of crime, waving a hand in goodbye over her shoulder as she heads towards the orphanage and a nestled little bar of a home, ignoring the sound of Lois’ laughter dancing along the streets.

\--

**Year One.**

_Desperate hands tug at a strap, a motorcycle helmet—non-descript and black—clattering in a pool of blood as Alex skids down next to her sister, hands immediately snapping off gloves as she assesses the situation._

_The very not-good situation._

_They’ve cleared the house, five perpertrators unconscious outside, and here the woman they were trying to save, conscious and desperate…is laying in a pool of her own blood beside the table they were using to restrain her, a gun tossed to the side by her hand._

_“What happened?” It’s not snapped—it’s clinical and reactionary—and Kara’s voice rasps, even through the voice changer in a dark helmet._

_“She—” But Kara seems to think better of it, hastily tugging off the helmet as she crawls over the woman’s body, shaking, bloody hands cupping cheeks, seeming to try to smile, instead. “You’ll be okay.”_

_“You—you’re not—” The woman below them rasps, body shaking as she arches up into Kara’s hands, horror and fear replacing resignation as she quivers. “I…I don’t want to…please don’t let me…die. I don’t—I don’t want to—"_

_“No, shh—shh—it’s okay. I would have—I would have—I understand why you—” Kara’s hands are smearing red through the woman’s hair like a crude fingerpainting and Alex can’t look up—she can’t look up to see the way her sister’s face is likely breaking, right now—instead reaching down to the strap along her thigh, fishing out her medical kit and trying to stem the bleeding. Trying to do everything she can._

_It turns out, Alex can’t do much, at all._

_They won’t make it to a hospital in time—the woman doesn’t even have enough time to beg before her body sags in Kara’s trembling arms--and Alex’s hands slowly drop from the wound, eyes closing underneath the weight of it._

_“Kara,” Alex whispers, quiet—gentle—and when she reaches red fingers up to her sister’s leather clad shoulder, the liquid stains the edges of it and Kara violently shrugs her off, fingers painting an unknowing bird on the back of trembling shoulders._

_“ **No.** ” Kara’s adamant—like her ferocity can bring the woman back from the dead, alone—and she wordlessly cradles the lifeless form against her, “No. No—she has…she has children who I promised—”_

_“Kara.”_

_“I **promised** —”_

_“Kara.” Alex wraps her arms around Kara’s shoulders as she cries—as they shake—and Alex thinks the world might shake with them, lips brushing over a temple, “Kara, there was nothing we could do. We did everything we—”_

_“No.”_

_“We have to go.”_

_“ **No**.”_

_“We have to--”_

_And when Kara slowly stands, Alex watches a piece of her sister bleed from her fingertips, staining the dirty concrete beneath them in a color humans can't see. She watches Kara’s jaw cut itself out of steel and her eyes turn to ice and when a helmet scoops back up underneath trembling fingers it crunches—breaks and skitters into slivers of its former self—underneath the strength of mountains._

_When the sirens sound, Kara whisks them away and all of the evidence they were ever there away, as well, save for a streak of the woman’s own blood painting down eyelids when Kara closes them out of respect and sorrow, a murmured Kryptonian prayer against her forehead._

_Kara doesn’t speak the rest of the night and Alex doesn’t ask her to because no matter how long Alex spends in their constantly-cold shower, the blood is still pooled in her cupping palms and the world settles on her shoulders._

_The rules change, that night, written hastily at the top of a notebook in a corner when they first started to realize they would forget the small things, one day, too._

_**~~Easily disposable and replaceable.~~ ** _

_**~~Untraceable and Covert.~~ ** _

_**~~Nonspecific and Nondescript.~~ ** _

_Kara’s jaw never eases as she tears nails through the tattered remains of a suit that used to bear her family crest--one of the only forces alive that might be able tear it--blue and red slowly weaving through the fabric of jackets while Alex disposes of their broken helmets, tugging out another pair and starting the modifications, the silence settling like a sermon between them._

_And once the silence is too much, Alex drags scraped legs along like weighted anchors around Kara’s knees and pulls her sister back against her, chin resting on a shoulder, wordlessly watching her as she works--as she paints with the tattered remains of a symbol both of them had stood behind, in another life. Another time._

_When Kara finishes, the sun is at her back from their small apartment instead of Alex, hiding the features of a tired face in shadows and the sleeping sister grumbles and crawls out of bed onto the floor, fingers running along the tapestry of birds weaved through the black leather of night, impenetrable and bright._

_“The hands of Rao.” Kara whispers and Alex recognizes the shapes from the paintings tucked against the corner of their wall—rare canvases that provide escape for a Kryptonian that only has paint, left—and Alex swallows as she looks up into steel blue eyes._

_“Flamebird and…Nightwing?” Her voice is quiet—rasped from lack of use and the tears she’s tried to swallow, instead, like hot whiskey mixing with cold gin—trying to place the legends Kara’s told her since they were kids._

_“I won’t lose you like her.” Kara decides, a far-off look in her eyes that Alex hasn’t become accustomed to, yet, strained and desperate underneath the solemn weight of their failure, “And we won’t lose anyone, not if we can help it.”_

_Alex’s hands curve over Kara’s on the fabric, holding them in place there before she shrugs on the jacket, feeling the remnants of the house of El at her back._

_Kara wears a flaming bird of sun on her shoulders--a phoenix, red and curling--and Alex wears a moon—the reverse of her sister’s, blue rising from the night with wings spreading along her back—tendrils of moonlight shining in brilliant hues of black and aqua, safeguarding the skin that wears it._

_“She thought I was them.” It’s whispered into the air weeks later as they stand among the rooftops, Alex’s hand wrapping around a bat and Kara’s hands stretching out in the air, welcoming the moonlight like she used to welcome the sun._

_**Supergirl** had been a beacon of light, enveloped in sunlight and hope, a symbol of a bird flying through the air like how Superman flies through the skies of Metropolis. _

_Kara isn’t Supergirl, anymore—she’s the flicker of hope whispered at night, a protector in the shadows. Not the light. **Supergirl** doesn't exist, not yet--can't exist, yet-- but heroes still do._

_Flamebird does._

_And the people have a right to feel protected by her name, not fearful of it._

_“She thought I was there to hurt her—she thought I was them, so she—”_

_Alex’s hand curves over her sister’s shoulder._

_Three other rules had made it below the struck out ones in their apartment, instead, the moment Alex saw Kara's fingers methodically sewing through strands:_

_**No killing or wounds, if possible;** _

_**No large events—keep the timeline intact as much as possible;**_

_**The other two rules don’t matter, when it comes to children—time itself is worth the life of a child. It always will be.** _

_“Maybe the Legends will never find us.” Alex whispers, voice distorted through the helmet as they hover over the streets of Metropolis, “Maybe we’ll never go back. So…you’re right. Fuck it, we’ll become Legends of our own. We’ll protect this city. I’m right behind you.”_

_A terse nod, Alex’s hand wrapping around a bicep before Kara leaps down into the streets below, the blue wing of a bird by her back, bat snapping out at her wrist when they land, an arm holding her steady at the waist to break the fall._

_Partners._

_"I'm right behind you--" Alex promises in her sister's ear as they land._

_They’ll protect it, together._

\--

Cat inhales the smoke through her nostrils as bare shoulders roll back into the cutting brick of a building, the sharp tinge of the grout a welcome sensation against her bones as she lets the calm of a rare-afforded cigarette wash over her. The ash flicks from a finger as a palm raises to massage at the knot forming somewhere near the front of her skull, firmly lodged and uncompromising. Cat’s starting to understand why Olivia drunkenly calls her every Saturday to complain about the Democratic visionary’s latest bout of campaigning, all off-the-books and very acidic.

Not that Cat could actually publish the particularly creative fifty-five choice curse words her old college friend has developed for Republicans even if she wanted to, not in today’s climate, but she’s thrown a few of them at Perry White, this week. Both mentally and physically inbetween pacing his office and slamming files on her desk, not caring if he hears her, and she’s certain she has no taste for politics.

She has to deal with enough old white men lording power over her as is.

Another flick of ash, watching as it flutters to the ground, brushing a bit of it off of the strap of her blouse as she continues down the street, ears filtering out the familiar sounds of the city. For once, she actively wants to turn the reporter off, but there’s one sound she doesn’t have a pre-set filter for in her mind, pausing by a half-opened door around the corner, a hum of recognition in the back of her throat when she realizes just _where_ she’s thoughtlessly wandered towards.

 _Clark’s_.

Of course.

Cat’s been out of town (mostly) since she’s been here, two weeks and some change, ago, and she hasn’t enjoyed the very pressing fact that _Tiny Dancer_ has been stuck in her head ever since, because it really shouldn’t have made much of an impression, at all. Not when all of Metropolis is burning down around them--not when the world turns and there’s _children_ having their lives ripped out from underneath them--not when her son is that girl’s age and her terrified face is splashed in red over Perry’s pages like some kind of war hero trinket--

Cat lets out a short breath, the cigarette slowly enveloping in ash and flame by her knuckles, mostly wasted, and she tosses it down to the ground when she starts to feel the heat of it, stamping it out with the butt of her heel as she sucks in a sharp breath, idly listening to a piano crescendo behind peeled paint.

It’s 2 o’clock in the middle of a weekday, even Cat doesn’t need to traipse into a bar, right now, but she’s surprised when the piano turns just a little livelier--a little brighter--and before she knows why, she’s _not_ walking down the street like the second time she’s intended to just _leave_ , she’s pushing open the door.

There’s no hanging clouds of smoke in the clear sky of the bar in the daylight, even if the scent of ash and booze clings to the walls like a divorcee that doesn’t know how to let go of his 50% and when her heels click along the scratched wood it’s lost underneath lively music, vision clear as her gaze slowly rakes up to the stage, the red of it brighter in the muted sunlight from half-drawn blinds.

There’s a much livelier, half-full band on the tiny stage, now, all of them clad in jeans and dancing smiles, and Cat would have to check that she hadn’t stumbled into the wrong bar--a different dimension, even--if her eyes didn’t immediately settle at the piano and the laughing smile that settles there as hands trill along the keys.

And there it is--finally, clearly--the jazz Lois had been toting all along.

The brightness of the outside streets--sun glinting off cars and asphalt and tall skyscrapers that threaten to overwhelm the city in glass and reflecting _light_ \-- _all_ of it seems to have floated mindlessly to the girl’s presence at the piano, a halo of life, like the sun itself is drawn to her. Like all of Metropolis’ energy is jump-starting a bright smile like a lightbulb, and not a single member of the band notices Cat as she slides further inside.

There’s only a few people on the floor and not a single person at the bar as Cat walks over to it, setting down the blazer she’d thrown over her shoulders on the well-worn grain of wood as that voice meets her ears--

“ _Hurry, come on now it’s a’comin’--_ ” And the _Tiny Dancer’s_ hands are rolling so fast, so happy down those keys that Cat can’t help her smile as she settles, foot thoughtlessly tapping at the familiar tune. “ _Can’t you hear it now, it’s coming? Listen to those rails a’thrummin--_ ”

Someone whistles from the crowd, a few other people shuffling inside, the band none the wiser as they keep going--keep singing--and Cat’s honestly never had such awful service in her entire life because it takes half of a piano solo for someone to scramble up from the floor to take her order (and the other patrons’ that are slowly filtering in) and Cat hates that she doesn’t even care.

“ _All aboard that ‘A’ train_ \--” The singer stands as a man--that bartender, Cat realizes--leans over to join her at the microphone, banging away on the edge of the piano before he tugs up a guitar and it’s in this moment that she realizes this must have been...impromptu. Because the stage isn't set--isn't wired--and they aren't dressed, happy and oblivious in the middle of a workday. Cat’s somehow stumbled into a daylight jazz session between employees that are probably supposed to be working, right now, not jamming out like a very perky blonde Thelonious Monk and a strung out, happy _Sting_ , but the crowd keeps filtering in and Cat stifles a laugh behind the back of her hand when she spots what she now recognizes is a furious manager behind that tenacious singer’s shoulder.

Rebellion comes in all forms and Cat's certain that the liveliest of it must have been jazz 

“ _Soon you’ll be on Sugar Hill--”_

But Cat’s just as content to ignore the manager as everyone else in the bar, leaning back on a stool and watching Kara Danvers (Cat can’t quite shake the singer’s name, no matter how hard she tries) and that bartender seamlessly transition to another classic, an expensive heel tapping away at the bar as they do.

And it's nice, really, not to think, for a while.

It’s nearly an hour until they stop, both of them laughing like red-handed teenagers--like they've been caught in a prank the last day of high school--and there doesn’t appear to be an ounce of apology on either of their faces (or any of the rest of the band) as they’re all corralled by the manager into the back office like cattle behind the stage to uproarious, rebellious applause from the devoted crowd at the stage’s foot. Cat realizes with a blink that one of them is none other than Lois Lane, herself, a loud whistle spawning from fingers shoved between lips.

So before Cat has to talk to her--talk to anyone, really--a journalist starts rifling through her purse, intent upon paying and getting the hell out of Dodge--  

“Hey!” There’s a happy noise next to her ear--so out of place in such a large city amidst the small, music-less chatter of the bar--and Cat blinks, slowly turning around to see the bright, unassuming smile of a person the journalist would insist she did not come here solely to see, if pressed, hand dipping along the rim of a drink to steady herself at the strength of it. The next time Cat comes here, she’ll have to bring sunglasses. Not that there will be a next time. There should not be a next time. How the hell did she get here so fast, anyways? “I didn’t expect to see you back here, Ms. Secret.”

Cat idly wonders if the girl remembers everyone’s names as easily as she remembers their pseudonyms.

“I’ve been out of town.” She offers, like there’s any need to offer an explanation, at all.

“Ah, right, going _out of town_ for business,” The singer recalls, casually sliding onto the barstool next to her and Cat finds it interesting to see the second side of a coin--to see the girl in jeans and a paint-stained shirt and a ponytail that seems content to defy gravity--a far-cry from the other night’s dresscode, but the girl seems just as relaxed in her skin as she always has, an elbow falling down to the bar as she taps it. The bartender--Sam? Or is that  _Cheers_?--hops over the edge of it tug out another martini glass. Well, at least he remembers. “How were all your fancy business meetings? They went well, I hope?”

“I’m not sure what you think happens when someone goes out of town for business, but it’s not all fancy business meetings.” Cat’s eyes slit, shrugging, “Well, mostly.” Grumbling as she plucks an olive into her mouth like she’s devouring an enemy. At least this way she can get a bit of blood on her hands vicariously--through a happy, active imagination--because she literally cannot afford to go to prison, right now and she’s imagining the olive is Perry White’s head. “Unless you count trying to find donors _fancy_.”

“Very fancy.” The girl hums and Cat’s surprised she’s heard her, at all, “Normally I just beg people for money the old fashioned way.” A thumb jerks back towards a stage, “With my hat.”

Cat snorts despite herself.

“Well you’re intent to ruin my dour mood, aren’t you?” An eyebrow arches and the girl just...keeps smiling.

“It’s my job.” She leans forward and, for a second time, Cat watches that hand fall right next to hers on the wood of a bar--watches the girl lean in, so casual and quiet (either confident or utterly unaware, Cat’s not sure)--voice a little gentler, “Besides, if I can make you laugh a little, I think it’s worth the daggers you’re glaring at me for doing it.”

“Who said I’m glaring daggers?” Cat smiles around her second olive.

“Your eyes.” The girl-- _Kara_ \--repeats, waving a hand up at them, “Definitely your eyes are saying that. With daggers.”

“My eyes don’t have mouths. That would be decidedly _creepy_.” Cat shakes her head because this is a ridiculous conversation with a girl she doesn’t even know. She should be down the street wringing her old mentor's neck to find justice for a girl that deserves it.

“Well the soul, fortunately, has an interpreter -- often an unconscious but still faithful interpreter - in the eye.” It’s a hum, bright and almost secretive and this time, Cat's eyes roll to the heavens, because it takes her a second--

“Do quotes really work for you? Does that really work on _anyone_ who you try picking up at a bar?” Cat leans a little closer, herself, hand sliding up the bar to rest barely an inch from the piano girl’s curling, knowing fingers.

“I don’t pick people up at bars. I don’t pick anyone up at bars.” And there’s a faint hint of a blush on those cheeks, now, an errant hand raising up to fiddle with glasses on the bridge of a nose and Cat is unfortunately intrigued, because the first hint of genuine hesitation finds its way clearly onto a singer’s tongue: “I’m...not bothering you, right? I was just...happy to see you back, I guess. I don’t mean to impose.”

“No.” Cat’s not sure why she offers the truth, but she does--maybe it’s the gentle way this girl seems genuine about being happy--sliding up a martini glass between them so that there’s _something_ there, raising it to her lips with a long-sipping hum. “If I had told you yes, would you really have gone away?”

“Of course I would have.” Brows knit and features contort, “That’s...a weird question to ask, I think. I’m not going to hassle you at my own bar or, um...any bar. For that matter. No hassling. Not that this is my bar, but I do _work_ here and I don't like people getting hassled.”

“It’s my job to ask the unasked questions. They tell you far more about someone than the boring old regular ones.” Cat places the drink back down with a soft clink and when she looks back up into Kara’s eyes, there’s something indistinguishable there, like there’s a question she’s close to asking that isn’t the one she asks, instead.

“And what did that tell you about me?”

“That you’re freakishly sincere for an artist.” The response is immediate from Cat’s lips and the girl smiles.

“Aren’t all artists supposed to be sincere?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, you’re the artist.”

“All artists are mostly sincere.” Kara tries, “Usually. Probably. I don't really know that many. Besides, aren’t you a writer?”

“Yes, but that hardly makes me an authority. I'm a _reporter_ ," She insists, "How does that make me an artist?”  

Kara laughs. And then pauses, raising up a finger between them when she seemingly catches onto the look in Cat’s eye, despite the smile settling on reluctant lips, “Oh, you’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. I’m an artist _with_ words--I have a way with them--but my job isn’t to create something beautiful, it’s to tell the truth.” It’s difficult not to sigh--not to imagine a young girl’s eyes and the faceless vigilantes who saved her--so she drinks, instead. “And the truth isn’t always beautiful.”

“Neither is art.” The girl immediately defends, but there’s an almost casual comfort in it. “Art is creativity. Are you saying you don’t have to be creative in your job?”

“Exterminators have to be _creative_ in their jobs, sometimes, that doesn’t make them artists.” Cat barbs. “Are _you_ still claiming you’re not secretly a journalist at heart?”

“You’re redirecting my question.” Kara notes, fiddling with those same glasses--a tell if there ever was one--and Cat raises her brows in challenge.

“You’re redirecting mine.”

Two sets of eyes flick down to the bar--to where their fingers might brush--and when Cat looks back up, both of their lips quietly bat upwards and when Kara shuffles just a little closer, her finger barely grazing along the edge of Cat’s finger, a weathered, tired journalist can’t help but think that she’s unhealthily _warm_ and doesn’t bother pulling away.

“You sound very adamant about _not_ being an artist.” Kara notes and Cat lifts her drink up to her lips with a smirk around the rim.

“I wouldn’t want people to go around thinking I’m poor.”

Kara’s laugh, she decides then, is a beautiful sound, and Cat has no problem watching the light highlight the flush of her cheeks as a chin tips back to let go of it. It’s open and carefree and loud and Cat thinks those are three words that are likely to describe any part of this Kara Danvers, really.

Open. Carefree. Loud.

“Are you?” It’s a tease, Kara leaning just a little closer--close enough to be two close friends at lunch, not two near-complete strangers.

“I am now.” Cat commiserates, “Outside of the morning where I nearly tore my hair out when I shouldn't have been at work, I spent all of my lunch shopping for a dress. There’s a gala two weeks from now.” It’s uttered with a casual wave of her wrist, certain Kara must know--certain everyone in Metropolis knows--but the girl doesn’t seem the least bit interested, shrugging a shoulder, instead. Like there’s always a gala somewhere and Kara couldn’t care less. Likely, she couldn’t.

“And the ex-fashion writer can’t be seen in an out-of-date dress?” Kara guesses and Cat’s smirk spreads.

“ _I_ will not be caught in an out-of-date dress.”

“Hmm, well...I guess I’ll see you there.” Kara offers with a spreading smile and Cat raises an admittedly surprised brow, careful not to show it. “I’m performing at it. So at least I know I’ll see you again, Ms...Secret."

“I guess so.” Cat hums but doesn’t like how that sounds like a goodbye, “Of course, I could always come back between now and then. Two weeks is a long time.”

Kara’s teeth tuck at a lower lip, sliding just a little closer--finger skimming up along the ridge of a finger to the curve of a thumb--and Cat absolutely refuses to let the chill that rolls down her spine show on her face.

“That is,” Cat’s voice is just a little lower, and her smile's the easiest it's been all day, settling on lips, “Unless you’re in trouble with Daddy Dearest, I might not see you here, at all. I'm surprised it didn’t take you long to get out of the principal’s office.”

“Ever the reporter?” Cat just gives her the facial approximation of a shrug because she _is_ , and she’s a damned good one. “It’s...actually my day off. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“Oh,” That explains the jeans and the paint and the lingering trail of sheepishness at the edges of Kara’s eyes, bright and blue and a hint rebellious. Like there might be a sparkle of confidence there, too--like Kara might like to see the world _try_ to keep her from that piano and, honestly, Cat’s money would be on the singer and she’s not even certain why. “It's nice to know I'm not the only workaholic in Metropolis." Actually, Metropolis is full of them. "My lucky day. I’ve been looking forward to some jazz.”

“Or mine--” And something must catch Kara's attention because her chin barely tips back and Cat hadn’t realized what it was like, really, to have a conversation with the girl where her attention was focused on anything but her. Maybe _that’s_ why Cat likes the utterly forgettable moments (that she hasn't forgotten) so much--it feeds her ego; her hubris--it’s certainly not the way those eyes look like some kind of _Eric Fischl_ painting. “Excuse me just one--”

And when the girl stands up, Cat's hand suddenly feels cool despite the overwhelming heat in the bar--in the whole city--a low sigh rumbling on the edge of her lip, drinking the rest of the martini in one fell swish.

Dark eyes flick over as she watches Kara rush over to greet a brunette, tugging a tall form into her arms in a bearhug before diving down to tuck a small boy up by her hip.

His hair is a brown mess and his smile is toothy and he would be the same age as--

She has _got_ to stop thinking about that.

The girl’s family? Or, worse, her wife and--

There’s no ring.

Cat looks back down at her now-empty drink because what the _fuck_ would she care about a ring as the pair laughs, a floating noise across the din of the bar. And Cat's traitorous eyes flick over, again, to watch Kara hop back up and curl fingers in the brunette’s tanktop and she wishes she hadn't. Because Cat sees it shining across the room, hanging happily on the brunette’s neck, catching underneath the light of the bar--underneath all of that sun that was intent to settle around Kara’s shoulders and now seems content to settle on that little silver band, instead--and Cat sighs, finally tugging out enough cash to cover the drink and then some, not bothering to say goodbye as the stool skids.

So much for no ring.

It could be any number of things, really, and Cat is doubtful she’s even jumped to the right conclusion, but the fact that she’s even wondering at _all_ hammers one simple point home--

She doesn’t have time for this. She doesn't have time to  _wonder._

Cat can be petty, certainly--it’s a fact she’s actually quite proud of and aims to be _known_ for, lest anyone try to one-up her at the _Planet_ \--but she’s not an idiot, nor is she utterly impressionable. There’s no need for mind-games with a singer at a bar she’s talked to all of twice, or jealousy over some unnamed relationship that likely isn’t even a relationship. Or isn’t any of her business, if it is. Cat's an adult and if she had to let her _son_ go for this, she’s not about to think twice about someone who doesn’t even know her name.

And it’s not going to get to that point.

So Cat leaves before she _can_ think twice about it...and then spends the whole walk to the office wondering, anyways, tapping jazz with a pen along the edge of her desk the moment she sits down. A pen she barely refrains from impaling Perry White with.

Well that settles it, at least.

The sigh is heavy and endless and _strangling_ , head falling back against the window of her small office, frown an impressively permanent feature on her lips.

Last year’s suggestion of her taking Rob Lowe up on his ridiculous attempt at a date should have clinched it, but it’s this--it’s this infuriating _fucking song_ that won’t get out of Cat’s head that does it.

Cat is never following a single suggestion of Lois Lane’s ever again.


	3. Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a journalist. I _have_ no heart. You’re a singer, and yet you seem completely unphased, like you’ve done this a thousand times before--”
> 
> “Don’t you know?” And the girl offers her a flashing smile, something charming and wide and surprisingly strong, and Cat finds herself almost dazzled by it. “I’m _Supergirl_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is likely going to be the longest chapter because (I'm sorry) it's going to take me a bit until the next update. This story becomes such an unexpected beast the more I write it and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. 
> 
> This chapter's song:
> 
>  _[Both Sides Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqFXzJgA6F0)_ ; Written by: Joni Mitchell; Performed in link by: Mackenzie Johnson
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think :)

_Rows and flows of angel hair_

_And ice cream castles in the air_

_And feather canyons everywhere_

_I’ve looked at clouds that way_

Writers through the ages have waxed as poetic over the beauty of moonlight as they have over love, itself. They’ve fallen to their knees and tried to grasp at its wisping, faded beams like a lost metaphor for love; they’ve pounded their desks and insisted that their lovers' eyes shone like moonlight because eyes might radiate the reflection of a far-away sun; they’ve insisted that moonlight guided a path or taken the last traces of it from their memories; hell, they've insisted the moon was life and love and _fertility_ , itself. 

Right now, Cat Grant only waxes that moonlight is a horrible, horrible guiding light as it traces the corners of her desk with a hint of white, her desk lamp flickering until it dies as she desperately tries to change the bulb with only this stupid _moonlight_ to guide her.

A string of curses tumble out of her lips when she discovers just how hot the bulb is—didn’t she get here just a few minutes ago? How is it this hot?—bouncing the small little glass orb in her hands before managing to toss it into a trashcan. Its fall is cushioned by a mountain of discarded paper, at least, and Cat sighs as she runs a hand over her face, digging through her drawer to find the replacement with a few more choice curses towards that fucking inefficient moonlight before twisting it in, blinking when the lamp seems to blast a beaming smile of light through her desk that might rival a singer across the city.

Not that Cat is thinking of a singer across the city, at all.

She sighs, looking back down at scattered photos now that she can see, again, hands running along them with a hint of reverence. It’s selfish, really, but she wishes these children weren’t all the same age—weren’t all bright eyed and young and beautiful and all around  _Adam’s age_ —the sound of her chair’s legs scraping across the empty bullpen lost underneath the scratch of her pen.

The valiant fight to get this article released has been more than just a week-long battle and her stomach churns as she tugs out yet another blank piece of paper, fountain pen staining the edge of it to test before getting to work on another chart. She’s starting to look like some kind of schizophrenic in a late-night drama, tying strings together to corporation names and politicians, but a little bit of crazy, she’s learned the past couple of years (especially working in gossip), is necessary for success in journalism.

Soon, she creates a mini kidnapping board of pictures and small bylines of articles, pen scratching along with it.

A recorder clicks underneath her thumb.

“So what do we know…” Cat hums to herself, “We _know_ that there’s been five _publicized_ ,” She’s careful about the word—knowing, now, because that’s what prompted this in the first place—thumb charting the names of the children at the top of the paper, “Kidnappings in the past four months, all of which have been stopped by an unknown vigilante. Two of the articles mention only one person, but three mention two…hmm. Another day.” Cat taps her pen against the edge of the desk. "Let's put a pin in that, Cat. Don't forget to come back to this."

She keeps talking.

All five kidnappings were orphans, and that was the only tie. Their medical records were sealed—all of their records were sealed—their ages were varied. Different genders, and for two of them there was no documentation on them, at all. No birth certificates--no apparent socials--no records of them existing, at all, save for two separate documents from an orphanage. But when questioned about the vigilantes (save for the youngest, who was too scared to mention anything, at all, and wouldn’t speak to anyone who saw her, at least on record) the children were all steel traps, not wanting to offer up their saviors on silver platters.

An odd kinship with their savior(s?). ' _(Come back to that, too, Cat.)'_

The kidnappings were thwarted in different sections of the city, but all at night, and all in Metropolis. None of the kidnappers arrested were ever held for long (circumstantial evidence, or evidence that mysteriously was misplaced halfway through trial) and all suspects refused to talk. The only thing other than the sheer number of them connecting the kidnappings together was the fact that the vigilantes had thwarted them (which was an interesting angle in and of itself).

She’s been pressing Perry for weeks to release the children’s names—to see if they couldn’t get more information, although it’s certain to lead to red herrings. To see if they can’t publicize the events to at least shed light on it, to keep it from happening again, to make someone in Metropolis give a damn, because what if it had been her son? What if it had been—

A sigh, looking down at the page, because what she knows is, decidedly, little, and she could use a drink. Although she’s had three of those, tonight, already.

She’d sworn she wouldn’t go back to Clark’s last week…and she kept going. Every night. Every night, this week, she’s somehow managed to wander into a bar with an annoyingly charming name and an even more annoyingly charming piano-player. The first night, she left immediately after the girl’s set, but Tuesday…she’d stayed, and Kara Danvers had smiled at her like she was the only person in the room, smoke setting in blonde like some kind of perfume, and almost sensing the tension off of Cat’s shoulders, didn’t talk.

It seemed almost uncharacteristic because, for the few things she knew about the girl (which was practically nothing) Kara Danvers seemed to love to hear herself talk. Why else would someone ramble on so much?

But Kara had just ordered a club soda—ordered Cat another drink—and sat next to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she was utterly content to sit there in silence in the din of a bar. And, even more dangerously, Cat was glad to have the company…so she came back the next day.

The next night, and then the night after that, and somewhen along the line, they talked. They talked about…nothing, really. Pop culture or movies—both of which Kara Danvers seemed impressively  _ill-informed_ about, but Cat hasn’t had time to see a movie in theaters in a near year, anyways—

 _“Well, maybe you can show me what I’m missing, sometime—”_ Kara had joked, teeth tucking a lip and thumb sliding just along the edge of Cat’s wrist, and the journalist almost suggested that movies were always on at 2 AM in an apartment with a TV she hadn’t used (still hasn’t) for more than the news in years. But she hadn’t. She just said _maybe_ with a hum and a flick of a wrist and a dropping stomach that didn’t shatter like glass when Kara swallowed and leaned a little closer like she’d been hoping the offer would come but took the potential like sunshine, regardless.

And that’s one thing Cat’s learned—Kara Danvers is a hopeless ball of fucking sunshine. She smiles and beams and somehow has a presence that insists the world will be perfectly alright simply because she exists within it, but is far too humble to even suggest that notion in the first place. But there’s something about her eyes—something so tragically sad about her eyes that Cat wouldn’t be surprised if an English poet, somewhere, wrote a hundred-word poem about the devastation of them, painted underneath that ever-waxing _moonlight_ ….

Cat swore that night, too, that she wouldn’t go back.

But she did. She listened to a constantly-rotating setlist of music with open ears and a warm chest—she learned how deeply Kara Danvers can laugh underneath the light of smoke without a singular, pathetic stage light highlighting the blue of her eyes—and she listened to her bounce around keys as effortlessly as Cat only wishes she could bounce around a typewriter. And tonight, after listening to a bar full of people desperately try to throw suggestions at her (in an apparently routine game), she listened to Kara be anything other than ordinary before the blonde had happily plopped next to her on a barstool an hour later, taking one look at the stretch of Cat’s shoulders before almost knowingly asking her what was wrong.

And Cat ( _idiotically_ ) told her. She launched into a rant lacking any form of breath, punctuation, or pause that might make Dalton Trumbo pale, or proud, or both. She told the singer about her week—about the kidnappings and the lack of justice and the lack of _leads_ to do anything meaningful with the story. She launched into wanting to make a difference—in wanting to _protect them_ —and when she looked up just a few short hours ago, there was something almost…familiar in those haunting, happy eyes.

Kara looked like she was thinking—almost debating, now that Cat plays the moment in her mind—and Cat had been too busy downing another martini to pick up on it, then. To ask the questions a journalist should know to ask.

 _“You know,”_ The singer had so casually suggested to her, fingers dipping along the rim of a club soda, eyes settled on the wall before turning back to look at Cat with something surprisingly…knowing. Almost clairvoyant. “ _Just because you know the names of five children who were kidnapped…doesn’t mean that’s all of them. Those are just the ones that were publicized_. _Maybe…_ ” She’d sucked a breath through her teeth, “ _You should start there. With what you don't know."_

Cat had blinked, too busy being stunned to care about _looking_ stunned before she’d reached out and squeezed the girl’s shoulder and practically _ran_ out of the bar with some phrase or another (hopefully not 'Kara, you're a genius' and definitely hopefully not 'I'm an idiot'), heading immediately to the office.

The sun might rise, soon, if she keeps this up, but it would hardly be the first time she spent all night at this desk, and it will likely not be the last, reaching over to tug open the public record (and the not-so-public one she’d picked up from a contact on her way here), dipping down to her lowest drawer to tug out a bottle of gin.

Her mother would give her such a _look_ for drinking it straight from the bottle (and that makes Cat wish she could _see_ it) but sometimes journalism requires a lack of class and debauchery that Cat can only hope to excel in, someday.

“Alright…so now that we have what we know.” Slamming the bottle back into the drawer with a decisive, determined, happy hum, glad for the burn and the lack of coworkers in the building—particularly glad for the lack of _Perry White_ —slowly starting from the top, “Let’s find out what we don’t.”

 

_But now they only block the sun_

_They rain and snow on everyone_

_So many things I would have done_

_But clouds got in my way_

\--

_I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now_

_From up and down and still somehow_

_It’s clouds illusions I recall_

_I really don’t know clouds at all_

 

“Guess I’m glad Radioshack hasn’t gone out of business, yet.” Kara hums, reaching her hand back up to her sister as she passes, holding up the small little trinket she’s managed, various pieces of mangled technology hanging from her lips muffling her voice. “You know that I don’t understand... _any_ of what I’m doing, Alex.”

“Do you usually?” It’s a tease, plucking the small piece before Kara can throw it at her, tugging over a new motorcycle helmet between bare knees, humming as she tries to run the thin wire through it. “Like _ever_?”

“Do _you_?” Kara counters, finger running along the edge of a textbook’s page before flicking a few back, the only indication that the pages have moved at all in the soft flutters of paper throughout the apartment. The sound of her sister speed-reading is oddly comforting if just because it tickles faint memories in the back of her mind. “Last I remember, which is, you know, what you tell me so who knows if that’s even the case,” But brows are knit, concentration keen down at the small little package of wires resting on her knee and Alex spares a small moment to watch over her shoulder like she’s overseeing a science project. “You’re a bio-engineer.”

“I _am_ a bio-engineer.” Alex immediately replies, glowering a little bit, not missing the way Kara’s lips barely tug up at the edges even amidst her concentration before her eyes flash, lasers slowly soldering a circuit. “Luckily for you, because it takes someone with like at _least_ five degrees to even hope to understand how _your_ brain works.”

“Not that hard,” It’s a self-deprecating laugh, “All signs up here point to food, music, and trying to do the right thing.” Kara tugs over her glasses, using them as a magnifying glass for the laser to split it--thin it--soldering the last two sections of the circuit. “Which, really, I know we’re still trying to make me go faster, have you thought of us just inventing an energy drink?”

“A simple girl, my sister. And no, the last thing the world needs is you on an energy drink. You might rip a hole in the space-time continuum.” As much as she watches--as much as Kara gripes--she knows that the technology is in good hands. “Again. There we go. This should keep what happened last week from happening again.” It’s a thin sigh, glad for a long lineage of quasi-surgeon’s hands if just because she’s not sure how else she would manage to wire this through the helmet without them. “Although watching that guy’s face as he tried to hit you in the head with a baseball bat was...okay, I admit it. It was pretty priceless.”

The perp--for some reason, _police_ jargon has stuck so steadily with her, like she’d been used to hearing it, though she can’t quite remember where, flashes of emphatic hands and tired dark eyes and a thin, sympathetic smile--had the unfortunate idea of smacking Kara in the head. A very breakable object met an immovable one and the bat had splintered, the attacker’s hand painfully repelling backwards as Kara just grabbed him by the fabric of his shirt and sighed.

 _That’s not very nice, you know_.

A chuckle, remembering the look of _horror_ on his face.

“Come on, Alex, that had to be one of the worst nights of that guy’s life.”

The guy had peed his pants right then and there and Kara had felt so bad they just wordlessly took him to the police station and dropped him off. Alex laughed the entire way home until she realized their very crude comm systems had broken, because of it.

They’d spent months desperately trying to combine minds to come up with some form of soluble technology years ago--Kara pouring over limited textbooks every free second she had--and even with her sister’s surprising knack for engineering and Alex’s muscle memory of a future they can’t recall, the system they developed wasn’t...well it literally was not rocket science.

Alex is pretty sure she’d be better at rocket science. So would Kara. They’d probably be alright with rockets, actual. Maybe that’s something they’re missing—rockets.  

But it’s time for an upgrade, anyways, and the textbooks have more than just theories in them, now, and Alex even manages to finally figure out how to utilize their old cell phones in a way that finally makes sense, fingers moving down to route the switch at the top of the helmet.

“Well then he shouldn’t have been breaking and entering.” Alex shrugs, rolling her neck as the faint smell of burning plastic meets her nose, giving it a moment before sliding on the familiar helmet, humming at the fit on it. “Feels good.”

“Yeah?”

Alex knocks on the edge of it, rolling her shoulders and nodding, again, “Yeah, feels good.”

Her fingers run along the rim of the helmet, tucking underneath it, remembering the last time one was yanked off of her with a sigh, shaking her head.

A squeal interrupts the reverie.

“Ah--shhiiiii--Kara, Jesus Christ.” Alex tugs off the helmet as her sister unknowingly touches the wrong wire, two hands immediately snapping up to lips in horrified apology, Kara rushing forward to make sure she’s alright, the piercing noise still ringing. “Shit.” Alex wags a desperate finger in her ear to try to physically rid herself of the tinnitus that immediately rattles her brain regardless of knowing that’s only going to make it worse.

“Sorry! Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Kara winces before gently adding after a beat, clearing her throat: “Did you hear it, though?”

“Oh, yeah. Not gonna hear anything else, though. Ever again.” Alex flops backwards on the ground, tugging the helmet into her lap as she looks it over, popping up the visor to check it. They’ll have to wire all of their spares tonight, as well. But it will be nice to have a new helmet. The last one was starting to smell like the inside of a boy’s locker room. A sigh, mind wandering: “I wonder how accurate that intel was on the second ring we heard about from that kid last night…” Alex hums, thoughtful as her head rests back on the faded wood of a scratched apartment floor, yawning, taking a moment to rest.

“Well there’s only one way to find out,” Kara chirps, as perky as ever at the opportunity to make a difference and when Alex opens her eyes, she’s not surprised to see that trademark beam up close and personal, blonde hair cascading down between them as an ever-eager hero leans over her. “But I think you’re right, without knowing where it is, there’s not much we can do until we pinpoint a location, and I’m having about as much of luck narrowing down new leads as Cat.” Kara pauses and Alex’s eyes open, slitting, “Or Lois. Or, you know, the _Planet_ at all. But, hey, you know the best place to wine, dine, and smooze the rich for intel….”

“The Gala?” Alex groans, mind exhaustedly running through a thousand scenarios, all of which end in dead-ends, which isn’t the worst way they’ve spent a weekend. At least this way they’re likely to make some money. Kara always kills it at the stupid rich things, and then kills it ten-fold at the after-parties.

“You know it. Music and service.”

“Food espionage it is.” Alex reluctantly agrees because she’s already imagining how difficult it will be to get into a banquet, even with their usual golden ticket--that golden ticket being Kara’s over-zealous piano fingers-- because she really doesn’t want to take up the other offer she’s received. Still, the years have passed where they bother keeping much from each other, so Alex hedges: “Lane did say something last week about needing a date….”

“Oh, look, you won’t even have to pretend to be a waitress this time.” Kara offers and Alex wrinkles her nose with a short shove to her sister’s laughing shoulder. “What? You’re a bio-engineer. You deserve better than the food-espionage.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“Too late.” Kara sighs, flopping down onto the floor next to her, tugging on her own helmet and laying down before flipping up the visor. A long moment passes before she whispers, “Cat will be there. All of the _Daily Planet_ will. At least we know Clark will be there for back-up.”

“That’s the second Cat sighting this conversation. Bad news, bears.” Alex reminds, tugging her own helmet on, flipping up the visor, their shoulders brushing together as they lay on their worn wooden floor, the sound of the wind gently rustling through the window, Kara’s withering sigh joining the faint hum of it, lost amidst the heat and silence. “Is she still coming to the bar?”

“Everyday, now. And everytime I see her…” Kara’s voice catches like a thread snagged between a door, violently tugging through it at the indelicate touch of an insistent hand on the other end, fraying at the edges as her sister sucks in a sharp breath. “Is that what it’s like when you drink?”

Kara’s never asked before and Alex has always figured it’s because she either knew already or didn’t want to and dark hair splays on the floor underneath black as a head rolls to the side, the noise of the helmet rolling on the wood matched by Kara’s when she does the same, their eyes meeting through open visors.

“Do you...do you remember?” Kara presses and Alex just tugs off her helmet and gets back to work, pointedly ignoring the quiet whisper of a breath from her sister on the floor, guilt and anger curling in her lungs. Maybe there’s _some_ things they still keep to themselves. “Because I don’t, Alex.”

Kara tugs off her helmet and dutifully gets back to working in silence when she doesn’t answer and it’s only an hour later that Alex hears her murmur it to herself, looking out the window, watching the birds in a way that feels so familiar that Alex’s breath catches in her throat.

“I just remember the idea of her. That’s all. And I think that’s being…overwritten, too. Now. By her.”

That’s all they have, now. Ideas.

And Alex hates it.

“So we have a week to figure out _what_ information we need from the Gala.” Alex’s voice is all business and she watches Kara’s spine straighten with Kryptonian steel, head tipping back with a nod.

“And how much of it is likely going to be coming from Lex Luthor.” Kara adds, a subject they’re far less gentle about when her cousin isn’t in the room. Alex comes forward and gently wraps her arms around a waist, chin falling down to a shoulder as they both look out at the city. “I know you need to head to the lab, but…are you coming to the bar, tonight? It’s been a while since—”

“You bet. You volunteering?” She hums and Kara squeezes her hand--nods--leans forward into the warmth of the city before Alex pulls away. “Come on, let’s finish putting these together so that we can actually get some sleep. We’re going to have to canvas this place top to bottom. I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

That gift horse being the Luthor mansion. Just because they can’t do anything in daylight--just because they can’t be open about it--doesn’t mean they can’t throw Clark a bone or two while they’re in there.   

Kara knowingly smiles, plopping down next to her and pulling up another circuit, a little easier going now that they’ve managed to do the first one without it exploding.

After this, she’ll head to the small lab and see if she can’t make any progress on their number one problem—getting home.

“You bet. You know,” Kara’s tone is bright when Alex tosses her another circuit, getting started on the first spare helmet, “I’m not the only badass in the family.”

Alex feels like she’s heard that before and smirks, because she feels like whoever said it is a genius.  

 

_Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels_

_The dizzy dancing way you feel_

_As every fairy tale comes real_

_I’ve looked at love that way_  

\--

_But now it’s just another show_

_You leave ‘em laughing when you go_

_And if you care, don’t let them know_

_Don’t give yourself away_

Cat lets out a quiet string of curses, heels clicking along asphalt as she tries to run without _running_ , heart catching in her chest.

“Grant!” A voice rumbles behind her and it’s unnerving, really, how _calm_ it is, like he doesn’t need to yell to stop Cat in her tracks and she refuses—she absolutely refuses—to give him the satisfaction, quickening her pace to a run around the corner of an alley.

Unfortunately, a stampede of heavy footsteps follow her.

Four of them.

She’d spent all day digging through police records until she found a lead—barely—two separate kidnappings happening around the same location she’d remembered reading a beat on _months_ ago regarding a Vice drop. Drugs or something, no one was sure, but there had been rumors in the gossip mill about Lex Luthor importing illegal goods on the docks—the same docks where two of the kidnappings took place.

It was a stretch, save for the fact that the plate for one of the cars the child was able to identify (one of the older children that had been taken), scribbled and never investigated on a six-month old police report, had been registered for a child-company of one of LexCorps’ start-up pet projects. Medi-Glo, a medical company specializing in cancer diagnosis equipment, which manufactured and distributed solely to the United States. All parts sourced within the United States—all labor proudly provided within the United States— _all_ business apparently focused on the crown heart of the United States, Metropolis, underneath the knowing guidance of Lex Luthor.

But Medi-Glo routinely received export and import shipments within a warehouse on the docks…unusual enough for a company so adamant about in-house procedures and Cat knows enough about the world to know if a man is spending time in another bed, it’s because nothing’s happening in his own.

Medi-Glo, Cat had discovered through a phonecall to Olivia Marsdin, house-hopeful that was aiming to make a name for herself cracking down on drugs with her DA and was heading a very sensitive investigation against Lex Luthor, was under scrutiny. Lex Luthor was currently being interviewed from _afar_ for his involvement...and supposedly had a shipment coming tomorrow, at 9 PM. To the very same docks Cat had been investigating. A shipment that had no other disclosed factors for its existence—the what, where, and why were all woefully unanswered—and when Cat pressed ( _pressed_ and maybe _blackmailed_ , just a little) her old friend into a source to press, herself, she found herself wandering the streets of Metropolis to hunt down an ex-convict and current contract warehouse worker for Medi-Glo based upon one simple, undeniable truth about a male's existence:

Cat is certain that all men's lives revolve around alcohol as much as most women's do.

So it wasn't too hard to go off of that. A few ex-colleagues, an ex-girlfriend and she had a name by the afternoon.

Victor (Vic) Martin enjoyed his nights at the  _Coon_ (classy).

When she found him at his usual haunt of a dive bar in one of the less flattering parts of Metropolis, Cat let out a hissing sigh when he recognized her and, worse, immediately had three goons stand up from their pool table at his disposal.

That was the problem with 10-99-Misc contract workers, they apparently had no real loyalty to whatever company they worked for, but also no real incentive to keep their jobs other than squashing threats…which Cat apparently is. Which is how she's suddenly found herself running through the streets of Metropolis from four genetically-modified _giants_  (or they just really ate their idiot Spinach growing up) that look more like skinheads than dock workers, heels skidding along the ground as she rounds another corner, heart pounding in her ears.

She was made for writing, not for running, and she tries to quell her pounding heart when one of the goons has the forethought to cut her off at the end of the alley, dark eyes blinking as she twists between his towering form and the end of the alley she’s trapped herself in, three other men advancing from the end of the street.

And suddenly, that fucking moonlight seems perfectly content to illuminate the entire street in absolute blinding precision, because Cat can see the man's smirk clearer than anything else in the world. 

He's going to kill her. 

“We heard you were snooping around. What, who Freddie Prince fuckin’ not good enough for ya, anymore, Kitty?”

Oh, God, he _sounds_ like an idiot. She’s going to die at the hands of an actual stereotypical goon _idiot_ and Cat stumbles backwards, nearly tripping in the open alley, but she’s not going to go out without a fight.

“I just…had a few questions, Mr…Rasputin, was it?”

She has no clue what his fucking name is, right now—breathless and more frightened than she’d admit—kicking off her heel and brandishing it because of course tonight was the one where she left her _mace and—_

“Nah.” He answers, clueless and advancing and Cat swallows, eyes frantic as she takes in her surroundings, looking for any way—any way at all—out. God, Mother was going to make her funeral ghastly, wasn’t she? Was she going to play that fucking horrible song from  _Beaches_ and-- 

No, no, she wasn’t going to die like this—

He grabs for her and she slams her heel into his eye and skitters backwards the same moment the man to her right, trying to block her exit, advances.

“Ahh, fuck, you bitc—”

Cat doesn’t think about it, anymore, she just screams and tries to run, three of the men advancing—

It sounds like there’s a crack in the sky, like a _boom_ rustles her ear and shakes the very foundation of the world, itself. Like a plane snaps through the fabric of the world itself, trailing sound and air behind it through the heat of the night. But it’s so disorienting that Cat wonders if she heard it, at all—if she heard _anything_ , at all—breath leaving her lips in a frightened rasp, expecting there to be a _gun_ that’s made the noise, somehow, blinking when she looks up to see the three men stumbling like they’re frozen in time.

Because suddenly Cat isn’t alone with them in the alley, anymore.

There’s suddenly another figure--a _woman--_ and the men’s breath seem to catch up to them, all sucking in at once, as the woman’s fist connects with one of their jaws with enough force for a second audible _crack_ to sound through the alley.

“Hey, didn’t anyone tell you that the whole…alley thing was out of season?” And there’s a voice Cat would recognize anywhere, even without smoke in her lungs, and it’s so strange—so out of _place_ —that Cat’s hand falls, certain she must already be dead. Certain that she can't be here, at all. "You guys are supposed to be doing this in warehouses, now."

Maybe she fell and knocked her head, or something—maybe she fell asleep on her desk working and—

One of the men throws a punch that the girl ducks, turning around just enough for Cat to see a flash of hair before she _palm strikes him in the chest_ —

Cat's breath finally catches up to her lungs.

“W-- _Kara_?” Cat blinks, the other heel she’d scrambled to grab in defense lowering from her hand as she takes in the unexpected sight of her even more unexpected heroine.

“Wh--” And a wave of blonde whirls around to showcase blinking blue eyes. It’s surreal, because their eyes are still caught across the alley and the other girl doesn’t look for a moment as her hand snaps up to catch an assailant’s hand (like it's almost  _reflex_ ) before it can hit her in the face, using momentum to pull him closer and Cat gasps at the sound of bones crunching when she buckles her elbow down and snaps his arm, “Oh, I--hey!” It’s a near-sputter as recognition hits and Cat’s other arm slowly falls as Kara practically _beams_.

She must’ve fallen asleep on her desk. Cat must have--

And then Kara ducks, leg swiping out the leg of the second attacker, using his body as a stepping stool the moment he crumples on dirtied asphalt to pop up into the air and punch the third one, the sound of all of them groaning uncannily ringing out through the alley and there, amidst all of them, is this tall, dazzling blonde, hair cascading over shoulders and glasses askew like they’ve been pushed down to the bridge of her nose, but the rest of her outfit perfectly in place.  

Kara elbows the last one in the stomach and he gasps before he falls and a precise leg snaps down, hitting him right where it must _matter_ because he immediately stops squirming and, just like that, Cat goes from her life being in danger to her life decidedly not in the matter of a few seconds.

And Cat just slowly--shakily--peels herself from the brick wall and swallows as Kara stumbles forward to gather up her forgotten clutch, handing it over with an almost nervous shuffle of glasses, hands curling over shoulders as the blonde skids forward to check on her.

Everything else about Kara perfectly, miraculously in place.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes…?” Cat slowly sucks in through her nose, the word timid and a little shaken in a way she detests, thoughtlessly leaning into those...surprisingly strong fingers. Strong fingers that just— “Even though I just...watched a lounge singer save me from four assailants in the...middle of an alley.”

“Oh, uh…” Kara laughs a little--pulls back--nose wrinkling as she doubles over and her hands fall to her knees like she _suddenly_ realizes she’s tired, but she doesn’t look winded, at all. “My sister is, um...ex-military. Not...that I told you that. Don’t tell anyone that. She made sure I know how to protect myself. And I have a bit of a problem with helping people. But _really_ , are you--”

Cat just raises a hand up between them to catch her thoughts for a moment before eyes flick down and she blinks to see all four of them either unconscious or groaning on the ground. “I’m…”

“Look, if you’re okay, we should really get out of here. If someone comes looking for these guys—” Kara looks over her shoulder and Cat pretends not to notice as she blinks, intentionally moving forward. Her mother was many things but she  _properly_ raised Cat to be an opportunist. “Uh...where are you going, C--”

“I was looking for _them_ actually.” Cat notes, pointing her raised heel down towards the one with the broken arm—the idiot who she was so certain was going to kill her—and, seeing her opportunity, she strides forward, kneeling down next to him in front of a sputtering Kara.

“You even smell like a lackey, God. I guess we can drop pleasantries now, can’t we, Vic?”

“Fuck you, Grant.” He spits—actually _spits_ at her—and Cat looks up when there’s another faint crunching sound, Kara looking decidedly innocent as she accidentally steps on his hand.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Really. Actually,” It’s a little quieter, “I really am, I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly. That’s just...really, really rude, to spit at people. It looks like Ms. _Grant_ ,” Kara turns up to her with that unnervingly blinding smile for such a dark alley when there’s three people unconscious in it, “Wants to ask you a question, so why don’t you listen?”  

“What is Lex Luthor’s shipment?” Cat never wastes an opportunity, even when it comes with a sunny smile and nice legs.

“I know nothing about--”

“Lex Luthor?” Kara leans back, a hint of something in her eyes, flicking up from the body to Cat and shaking her head. "This is about Lex Luthor?"

“What. Is. Lex Luthor’s. Shipment.” Cat repeats and Kara reaches over and grabs her shoulder.

“Um... _Ms. Grant_ ,” The girl is tugging her upwards and Cat frowns at it--at being a Ms. anything, really--stumbling when Kara wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“What are you--” And fury grips her, then, because she didn’t get accosted in an alley just to--

“More people are coming.” Kara tugs her back the way she must have magically appeared from. 

“What? How do you even--” And Cat hears it, then, the sound of footsteps, and decides not to complain anymore when Kara reaches down and twines their fingers and runs, wondering how the girl is so freakishly fast. It must be those long legs.

“No time, let’s just get to the running and not dying part, okay? What were you asking him--about some...what’s going on with Lex Luthor’s shipment?” Kara slows down to her pace, Cat realizes, but doesn’t stop holding onto her for a second, like she’s prepared to pick her up if she has to, and if there wasn’t so much adrenaline in her chest, Cat might laugh at the thought.

Like a lounge singer could pick her up and maintain speed, even if that lounge singer had just potentially saved her life.

“What does a Bruce Lee lounge singer care about--” Kara tugs her around the corner onto the main street and then into another nearby alley, eyes flicking around before she spots a fire escape ladder, kneeling down. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me.” Cat snipes when she realizes Kara’s tenting her hands up like it's just another Friday for the girl, “If you wanted to look up my dress, you could’ve just--”

“ _Ms. Grant_.” Kara’s voice is insistent and her jaw is set, “I’d _love_ to, believe me, but can we focus on the fact that guys with guns are chasing you?”

Cat decidedly does not want to know how Kara knows they have guns and decidedly does not want to see them for herself.

“Oh, fine.” But Cat is already rushing forward, taking a few steps before Kara hoists her up higher than the girl should be able to--she must have impressive biceps, really; must have with those _punches_ , anyways--and the journalist lets out a huff as she starts to climb upwards, ignoring the faint hum of relief when she hears Kara leap up and follow behind her, focusing on clamoring up. “Why--” She huffs as she pulls up to the top of the second landing and _God_ , she probably should think about doing that pilates thing Lois is always jabbering on and on and on about. “Are you calling me,” She tosses her other heel, throwing it over the side of the escape as she starts to rush upwards, the sound of her stockings padding against metal lost under her whispering breath because being able to hold on feels, for once, a little more important than fashion, “ _That_.”

“Because I’m not,” Kara’s hand is suddenly around her waist, tugging her close near the top of the stairs, urging Cat down to press her against the wall, both of them molding against it in the shadows as a few shouts round down the alley and for a second, Cat can’t breathe. She can’t think. Her heart is hammering in her throat and she wonders if this once so-unassuming singer must know it from the way she leans forward, gently whispering in her ear like she’s trying to calm her heartbeat with a dolcet, soothing tone alone. That’s what she’s been doing all week, after all. “Supposed to know your name. _Cat_.” And she smiles like this doesn’t bother her, at all, adjusting glasses as she leans just a little back to offer a small smile. “You never told me. I saw you on the news the other day. Well, a while back. Like…a month, probably.”

“Oh.” Cat sucks in a small breath as Kara leans up against her just a little tighter--presses just a little closer--and her breath quivers against a lip despite her even smile. Kara Danvers has an unrelentingly strong frame. “Well I hope my performance was up to your expectations.”

“Definitely. But something tells me you’d never give anything less. Come on,” And there’s that hand, again, twining with Cat’s and guiding her back up to a roof.

That means the men kept going down the alley, if Kara’s moving, at all—thank God—and Cat…realizes she has no clue why she’s taking a _karate lounge singer’s_ word for it—

“Why exactly am I trusting you to guide me out of danger, again?” But Cat doesn’t let go--holds onto her hand like a lifeline as Kara guides her onto the roof and towards a closed door, blinking when she elbows the lock off of it.

“Oh, it was just...a little rusty. Came right off. Look at that, hah.” She adjusts those glasses again and tugs Cat inside before closing it, wide shoulders visibly easing once they’ve gotten inside, Kara leaning against the door with a sigh, “And I don’t know. But I’m glad you did, because I think we’re in the clear for a little while.”

“In the clear...in a random building surrounded by men with guns that...you saved me from. Which I never thanked you for.” Cat realizes, squeezing the hand but not dropping it and this seems to cause Kara to have a moment of realization, herself, blue behind glass flicking down to joined hands before slowly trailing up, again.

God, that smile.

“I can take that as a thanks. But it was...really nothing. Right time. Right place.” She might be blushing and Cat has to resist the very strange, very strong urge to press her against the dingy random building’s wall, the light flickering above them like something out of a horror movie, and kiss her.

Adrenaline rush, really. She probably almost died, tonight (still has a chance to) and what’s a little kissing between strangers—quasi-bar-friends—or saviors and damsels in distress?

“Most people would say running to save the day and then running from men with guns would be a wrong time, wrong place thing.” Cat notes and watches as Kara shuffles on her feet, a hint of an awkward laugh on lips even as she leans closer.

“Well...I’m not most people.” Her chin dips, eyes bright and almost dangerously familiar as she smiles, “ _Ms. Grant_.”

“Apparently not. You seem very calm right now, _Ms. Danvers_ ,” Cat hums and the girl blinks a little, almost unnerved, before she points out:

“So do you.” She makes the mistake of backing up against the wall and this time Cat advances like a shark who’s smelled blood in the water, eyes barely slitting as she watches the clench of her jaw--the flare of her nostrils--the untraceable look in those kind, unfamiliar blue eyes.

“I’m a journalist. I _have_ no heart. You’re a singer, and yet you seem completely unphased, like you’ve done this a thousand times before--”

“Don’t you know?” And the girl offers her a flashing smile, something charming and wide and surprisingly _strong_ , and Cat finds herself almost dazzled by it. “I’m _Supergirl_.”

And the pianist (that’s what she is, isn’t she? Just a  _pianist_ ) laughs, then, leaning forward to curve a hand around Cat’s shoulder that should make her tense--should make her back turn into steel--but makes it ease, instead, brows knitting.

“Very funny.”

“Do you always interrogate the people that just tried to save your life?” And that smile’s still so kind that Cat would find it easy to be blindsided by it in such a dark hallway, “Look, I was on my way to the orphanage around the corner when I heard you scream. I just...reacted. Like I said, right place, right--”

Cat leans up and kisses her cheek, smiling when she hears breath trip over itself like it has feet before it sucks through teeth, Kara’s eyelashes fluttering as she looks down at her.

“My hero.” Cat wipes a hint of lipstick off of that cheek and feels a swell of dangerous warmth when this stranger stutters in breath and smiles. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I still have work to do.”

“It’s funny...I work in a bar, don’t drink,” Kara clears her throat--fiddles a little--and it’s in this moment that Cat realizes she never let go of her hand and doesn’t feel particularly keen on asking her to. Maybe it’s a little more than adrenaline. “But I can eat a surprisingly large amount for dinner. So if you wanted a raincheck...”

Cat smirks, “Oh, I love an opportunist.”

“Well, that’s me. When opportunity knocks I just…” She pantomimes swinging open a door with a faint whistle and then winces, like Kara’s understood quite how much of an idiot she looks in that very moment. And Cat hates that she’s a little fond of it. “Open...the door.”

“They could run a study on you.” Cat notes, nose scrunching, eyes bright. “I mean, really--”

“Yep.” Kara winces.

“Half the time very, very smooth, and then there’s this ten percent--”

“Oh trust me, I know. I’ll spend the next day and a half ranting about that one sentence non-stop to my sister--”

“Alex, right?” Cat hums and Kara blinks, surprised, like she hadn’t expected Cat to remember the fact at all. “I’m an investigative journalist,” She reminds, “And a gossip columnist. Remembering the details comes in handy. You mentioned it, the first night you were on stage.”

“Right.” Kara shakes her head, “You know, um…” She holds up a hand, eyes closing like she’s _listening_ , which would be ridiculous because there’s nothing to hear, here, save for the flickering electrical hum of a light above them and probably, if they listen hard enough, rats running through the dirt-smeared walls.

“What are you—”

“Stay here, okay? Promise.”

“Why are you—”

“I’m going to just go check really quickly. Just stay here, okay? If I knock on the door, run and hide but--”

“Oh.” Cat blinks, realizing: “You’re serious, aren’t you? 

“Look, I’ll be right back. I just...you can never be too careful, right? Not that I, um, deal a lot with people and guns, but you can't be too careful--yeah, so you just stay here, promise?” And it’s uncanny, really, how when Cat slits her eyes Kara almost reads the protest on her tongue, gently curving that _warm_ hand around her cheek like she has any right to do so and Cat stiffens. It’s hot outside and they’ve been running, so her entire body is hot and sweaty (unflattering), but there’s something about the warmth in that hand that— “Oh, I’m sorry, I--my sister always told me I’m too tactile and I--” She laughs a little and pulls away entirely and Cat catches those fingers before they can go too far.

“Shut up.” Cat sighs and squeezes, still feeling…vulnerable and a little nervous. She almost argues about going with her, because it could be suicide to go out and track down enemies that _Cat_ has created, and the girl is too kind for her own good…

But then again, they know Cat’s face. And Kara apparently has a knack for this kind of thing and—

“I’ll be okay. Promise.” Kara’s voice is gentle and sincere and Cat closes her eyes before she pulls away, herself, tapping nearly-bare feet as she leans back against a wall, arms crossing, eyes looking to whatever might be up in those vast heavens of emptiness as she tries to temper her breath.

“Fine, I promise.”

“Thanks.” Kara ridiculously murmurs like _Cat’s_ the one doing her a favor and she has half a mind to wonder how the hell someone can be quite so happy in a situation like this.

“Try not to get shot, please.” She barely remembers to hiss before the door closes— “And if you happen to find my heels, they cost me a fortune.”--before her head thuds dully against the wall. It takes longer than it should, each second of flickering lights in this strange, strange building causing her shoulders to sink further and further down and there’s only so many times she can check her watch before she resists the urge to slowly slide down the wall entirely, fingers curling in on themselves.

She's exhausted, adrenaline wearing off in favor of a constantly-pressing fear.

It gives her enough time to replay over that little fight scene over and over again. She doesn’t remember her scream being loud--she remembers the heel and the thud and the feeling of the wall against her back and then...

She doesn’t remember hearing her running. Doesn’t remember hearing Kara breathing, at all, just suddenly there saving the day like a—

A step sounds downstairs and Cat scrambles to grab her purse, the only real weapon she has at the moment, brandishing it to see...a mop of blonde hair downstairs, hastily pulled up into a ponytail, a hand raising up in consolation as Kara greets her around the corner at the bottom of rusted stairs.

“Woah, hey, it’s me.” Kara nods down towards the purse and Cat lets out a sigh through her nose, the noise rattling among the flickering light between them, “No projectiles, please. I, um...I maybe snuck around to make sure we were completely okay. Those guys are gone.”

“Who the fuck are you, Josephine Baker?” Cat snaps, a little on edge despite the relief clear on her face, waving a hand at Kara’s obvious confusion.

“How does that make me Josephine Bak--”

“Nevermind. Sheet music. Let’s just--” She snaps a hand up and Kara stumbles forward a little bit to help her up, smiling down at her once she does. “I’m...glad you’re okay. We didn’t have a contingency plan if you didn’t come back. You just disappeared and I thought--”

“Sorry.” And the girl at least does look sheepish, at that. “But I have to say, all this is way too much excitement for an ordinary girl like me. Really works up an appetite…”

“Well, you’re pedaling that dinner hard, aren’t you?” Cat reaches up to curl fingers around a forearm, steadying herself, and it’s amazing how the girl leans into her like she’s done it a thousand times, dark eyes blinking at the sight in hands that greet her. Sparkling like some kind of fashion Oasis in a desert, “You...seriously found my heels? Both of them.”

Kara just shrugs this sheepish smile of a thing that leaves Cat breathless and searching for anything to hold onto in this…uncanny, ridiculous turn of events, tonight.

“Everyone’s gone.” She promises, voice gentle, and Cat doesn’t let go of her arm for a second as she slides her heels back on, happy to see they’re closer in height, now. And Kara just leans into her, adjusting with the weight without a second thought. “Maybe not the best thing, but they’re nowhere around here looking for us, which means I think your work night might be done, and...you don’t have to buy me dinner. I happen to know a place right around the street where I’d already brought a hamburger, if...you want to split it?”

And she looks so hopeful that Cat can’t help but laugh, a little, when realization sinks.

“Around the street?” Eyebrows raise, “Did you just invite me on a date to an orphanage?”

“You’d consider it a date?” And Kara just…she practically _radiates_ and Cat has to huff out through her teeth to temper her own.

“Who are you?” It’s a curious question, a hint of marvel at the end of it, “This...lounge singer who just saved my life in a fight you so casually shrug off, who wants to take me to dinner at an _orphanage_ \--”

“I’m just regular, ordinary, normal Kara Danvers.” Kara quietly supplies, brows wrinkling a little at her own words--a small shake of the head as Kara leans just a little closer, “And the truth is, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, I’m...a little worried about you. And the fact that you were just assaulted by three men in an alley who know your name. And I’d love to walk you home, even though I’m sure you don’t need it,” She holds up a hand with a shake of the head, “I’m sure you can hold your own, and I know I might not be much help, but...I promised these kids that I would be there tonight to sing them to sleep, and I’m even more worried about not seeing you again. So...yeah. I--well, I just--I don’t--really...want to see you...get hurt. And would like to share a hamburger with you. Sure.”

It’s inelegant and bumbling and Kara takes her glasses off to clean them afterwards before pushing them back up her nose with a nervous tick of a smile and when she opens up her mouth to start with the infernal talking, again, Cat just gently raises up a hand to her lips to stem any more of it.

“Kara?”

“Hmm?” It’s hummed nervously against her fingers and this definitely must not be the first time she’s been shushed in her life.

“You just saved my life.”

“What? I didn--” It’s cut off by a sharp look, those fingers pressing firmer and those lips are painfully soft underneath Cat’s skin.

“Shh.” Cat shakes her head, “You’re kind and sweet and...that folksy charm certainly helps your case, but while I am definitely not calling this a date,” She does have some standards. That’s a weird date, even for tonight. “I think I would very much like to share a hamburger with you, even if it is in an...orphanage.” Her nose wrinkles, a rough swallow as she admits, chest a little hollow at the thought, “Although, I’m not exactly...good with kids.”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe.” And when Cat looks up, she watches that smile stretch underneath her fingers and she wonders what in the world she did in that bar to cause Kara Danvers to have such blind faith in her, or was that just the type of person she was? “Ms. Grant.”

Cat would have an easier time believing it if she hadn’t just watched the girl easily take out four men in an alleyway brawl without breaking a sweat.

That’s a mental image that’s still taking some getting used to.

“Cat.” She finally offers, hand falling from lips to stretch upwards in greeting, smiling when Kara’s hand slides into her own. Humming, “It’s nice to formally introduce myself, _Kara Danvers_.”

There's this look in her eyes like something slots into place and she couldn't possibly imagine what.

“Oh,” Kara tangles their fingers after the shake and starts to guide her down the stairs, “Believe me, Cat, the pleasure’s all mine.”

A lecherous smirk spreads across her lips, brazen and bright as the lights flicker.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it _will_ be.”

It’s worth it just to watch Kara trip once they’re down the stairs and on even ground, mumbling something about a rock and horrible balance as she blushes underneath the city lights and a poetic moonlight that traces their every step.

 

_I’ve looked at love from both sides now_

_From give and take and still somehow_

_It’s love’s illusions I recall_

_I really don’t know love at all_  

\--

_Tears and fears and feeling proud_

_To say, ‘I love you’ right out loud_

_Dreams and schemes and circus crowds_

_I’ve looked at life that way_

 

Alex sighs, running a hand over her face as her shoulders slump, elbows sliding further down the table’s surface, chin falling to rest on the table, mind lagging. The calculations should make sense, but there won’t be any chance to try them until she gets Kara out into the field (their literal field in Midvale, far enough away from their home to never be noticed, but close enough just to make sure they’re _okay_ )—until Kara can convince Clark to try hurtling his cousin through space—and she sighs, gently unsnapping the ring around her neck.

She’d gone to the bar first, tonight, because the tension in her shoulders had been too much and playing with Kara was one of her few reliefs, these days. All of their helmets were wired in the apartment but Kara was right, the kidnappings were still an unsolved mystery, and…so was any hope of getting home.

And it's not just the scientist in her that can't help but feel like she shouldn't be here, at all.

The small lab is empty save for Alex’s desklamp and it likely will be for a few hours, yet. It still feels so weird, when she thinks of it. She’s worked here for two years, hidden, in exchange for providing some…medical services on the side to a few people in the city that can’t afford it. While she never was much of a doctor’s doctor, that’s changed over the years stuck here—she _did_ go to Medical school, after all, before ultimately caving and switching her doctorate—and she’s glad for it. Just like Alex understands that Kara can’t turn her back everytime she hears a siren, now, Alex can’t turn her back on this, and where she’d normally be paid monetarily, she’s found an appropriate compensation in obscurity and medical supplies and compounds a little, well…illegal to get.

That’s how they ran into Lois in Metropolis, in the first place.

“Wonder what Mom would think, now, if she knew I was in the illegal _medical trade._ Try explaining the fact that I don’t harvest organs over dinner, could you imagine?” A faint laugh, “I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t like that. Probably. Maybe if she knew I was saving lives for people that can’t afford it. Who would’ve known the Danvers sisters would’ve turned into such Robinhoods, huh?” 

She holds the ring underneath the light, voice gruff as she greets her old friend.

“I guess you probably did. You know, we got it in our heads that we have to find a way back. That’s been our goal for so long, and I owe it to her—I do—but, and don’t tell Kara this, okay?” Fingers gingerly set the small ring on the table’s surface, elbow resting next to it, whispering like it’s a great secret, “I don’t even know why. I know, I know,” She raises both hands, leaning back in the chair, “It’s crazy. We’ve been working on these formulas for…God, three? Years, now. Three years. Can you believe that? I haven’t…seen you in three years.” Alex clears her throat, leaning back down on her palm, “We tried building that timeship, first, after the signal—God, do you remember that? Kara is great with math and the whole…engineering thing, but I had to wait for weeks for my eyebrows to grow back, you would’ve loved that. You would’ve come after me with a sharpie. I guess. Probably. And then we tried the signal again—we’re still working on that signal, but who’s even going to hear it? And now we’re getting Kara to go…really, really fast. Our last ditch effort, because Kara remembered something about a Barry Allen last year—what if she can’t go fast enough? She’s been training, you know. She’s been training for two years, but she reached a stagnant point, so we realized…what if we got Superman to throw her? If they can both go fast enough…maybe he can throw Kara and we can…”

Alex waves a hand, looking at the ring like it might talk back to her.

“Can you fucking believe it, our future rests on _go really, really fast._ Train Superman, and go really, really fast. Why am I telling you all this, anyways? You know it all. I’ve told you all of it and I…I don’t really know why.”

She has no clue why.

But Alex swallows, rough and desperate and full of glass, head shaking as she runs a nail along the rim of it, “You know…I don’t even remember what you look like.” She informs the ring, like it’s a person—like there’s eyes behind the glint of silver—leaning further back in the chair, enough to tempt fate as eyes skim over the ceiling. “I don’t look at your pictures, even if Kara…well, Kara used to want to look at them. I think it’s getting too hard for both of us. It’s just…it’s so weird. It’s like living in a swimming pool. All the time, and trying to—trying to…open your eyes underwater. That’s what it’s like, trying to remember, like we’re both drowning and when we open our eyes, it stings and we can’t really see or see the end of the pool and…and, fuck.” She laughs a little, wiping a restless hand under her eyes, “Kara’s the writer. I’m just tired. Why am I even….”

She picks up the small little chain, sliding it onto her pointer finger and brushing lips over the scratched surface of a ring.

“Anyways,” She breathes, “I guess I just needed your advice. I think…I think you were pretty good at that. Or you should be. You were? You will. You think I’d get used to talking about this.” A self-deprecating laugh brushes against her tongue, chin exhaustedly falling back onto her palm, finger dancing underneath the dim desklamp, watching it roll along her skin, “We can work on this—we can work on getting home—or…or we can work on finding these kids. And that’s our one rule, you know? Kids always come first. We haven’t talked about it, but what if…” A short breath sucked through teeth, “If we can’t get back, what if Kara’s right? What if we _should_ do everything we can? Every second I’m working on this is a second we could both be saving them.”

The ring doesn’t answer and Alex quietly clips it back around her neck, hand resting the cool metal against her sternum, heartbeat constant underneath it. And there’s a bit of peace in that that she’d never verbally recognize.

Kara, after all…she’s the writer. She’s the singer and the writer and the one who feels too much for the both of them. Alex….

“I know.” She whispers, like someone might have responded—like there’s a voice always on the back of her ear—eyes closing, focusing on the quiet hum of the lab behind her. Maybe if she leans far back enough, she’ll feel like she’s flying without Kara’s arms around her waist. People don’t realize that flying and falling…both of them are just the absence of sensation, anyways. That’s all falling is—it’s nothing—and flying, she’s learned, is a whole lot like that. “Kids are the future, anyways.”

Alex gives herself a second before she roughly closes the book of chemical compounds—of hypothetical serums and biochemical compounds they’ve both been researching to see if they couldn’t augment Kara’s speed—before tucking it back in her bag (like she’d let the past have _these,_ she can’t be too careful) and heading back out of the door, into the moonlight.

And for a moment—for a breath—Alex might be able to hear _her_ , a gruff, laughing, sympathetic voice in her ear full of heartbreak and understanding. A familiar scent and a smile along the pulse in her neck, dancing and constant and full of life.

_You were always just as much of a hero as your sister, anyways, Danvers—runs in the family._

Alex decides she needs a drink and just hopes Kara hasn’t made it back home to pour all of her whiskey down the sink, yet.

 

_But now old friends—they’re acting strange_

_They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed_

_Well something’s lost—but something’s gained_

_In living every day_

\--

_I’ve looked at life from both sides now_

_From win and lose and still somehow_

_It’s life’s illusions I recall_

_I really don’t know life at all_

 

The night just gets weirder and weirder.

Cat’s not sure what she’s expecting, anymore, but there’s still some amount of surprise in her chest when they _actually_ go to an Orphanage and there’s _actually_ a group of orphans patiently awaiting them with a cheer, and Kara _actually_ disappears around the corner for all of five seconds before returning with a guitar.

“So this wasn’t actually some kind of secret agent line-drop to try to get in my bed,” Cat whispers in her ear as the children all (thankfully) stop asking her questions in order to shuffle into spread out blankets and pillows on the floor. She'd think she was Mother Teresa if the journalist in her wasn't aware of how terrible of a person Mother Teresa could be. “You really are singing orphans a bed-time story.”

“Why would I lie about that?” Kara whispers back, seemingly genuinely confused and Cat just shakes her head.

“Seriously, how in the world has no one stolen all of your money or something in this city?” It’s unfortunate that the look Cat gives the girl is nothing short of _fond_ and she feels it from the way Kara smiles back at her, bright and quiet.

“I don’t have any money. There's only so many ways I can tell you I don't _have_ money, Cat. That's how no one has been able to steal it.”

Cat snorts and looks around for somewhere to sit before Kara just goes and sits _right on the floor_ and the journalist thinks there’s nothing worse than looking out of place or awkward, especially in front of all of these kids who are all _looking at her_ , so she shuffles out of her heels and…sits down next to her, chin tipping upwards with a smile.

And all of the kids look so excited that the smile turns a little more genuine.

“Come on, Kara!” One of them kicks their feet up and out as they restlessly roll in a blanket, a member of the staff (is it called a staff if they’re all volunteers?) leans against the doorway with a yawn, obviously awaiting the show.

Kara hums—actually _hums_ —something melodic and unfamiliar and Cat clears her throat, not wanting the attention to move off of the blonde to focus on her, instead. Not like this. Not when they’re all so young.

“So you’re a musical savant, now? What’s next,” Whispering in an ear as knowing fingers start to tune the guitar. “Are you going to pull out a drum-set?”

“Oh, nothing like that. Trust me. Pianos are just…music theory—the basics. So is a guitar. Nothing special. Although I um…” A shrug, pausing before fingers run along one of those knob-thingies and twists the other knob thingie before plucking, again. Her mother forced her to play piano and, outside of swooning her fair share (which was her right) in college over ill-played acoustics in the greens of a courtyard, Cat had never bothered learning technical terms for anything _other_ than a piano. “I can play drums.”  

“Of course you can.”

It doesn’t take long until Kara seems satisfied with the tune and there’s something…different about it, here, when the girl starts. It’s not the guitar—well, not just the guitar—or the lack of smoke or voices or glasses clinking. It’s not the children who all seem like they’re suddenly underneath a siren’s song, their own little chatter dying as they listen.

It’s the space. Or lack thereof.

Because Cat is sitting right next to Kara as she plays—as she closes her eyes and smiles and strums fingers, voice quiet and gentle and—and Cat has never been so close to something like this, before. To the soft vibration of a lilting voice, and it’s intimate in a way Cat hadn’t known intimacy could be, soon finding herself as entranced as the children.

It’s the breathless moment she understands why she kept coming back to the bar, at all, and it’s too much. The nearly dying was one thing—the danger was another—the story slipping through her fingers as she traded her life for her lead was a different one, entirely…but this—

This is something Cat doesn’t know how to deal with.

Because Kara Danvers, this woman who’s listened to her all week with an unwavering smile and charmed an entire bar and wanted to share some fictional (because Cat hasn’t seen it, yet) hamburger with her in an _orphanage_ , is singing Joni Mitchell to a room full of orphans and—

And when it stops, Cat realizes she doesn't want it to. She never wants Kara to stop singing, breath so warm and close and genuine by her ear.

Because Cat has never seen someone so endlessly beautiful before, in her life, with a smile to match.

The guitar is soft as the small huddled forms in the main room all slump by a small little window-ac unit that looks like it’s seen better days, the night hotter in this room than it was outside. But none of them seem to mind enough to untangle themselves from pillows and

“Joni Mitchell? God, Kara, they’re already orphans,” Cat whispers in her ear, not bothering to hide her smile, “Are you trying to depress them more?”

Kara just laughs, tucking up her guitar against her chest, not stopping strumming for a moment, despite the song’s end, something else evolving beneath her fingertips, “They don’t listen to the words. Trust me. Winn!” Her voice is happy and perky, nose wrinkling as she leans over the guitar to beaming little boy whose hair hangs in front of his eyes.

The same boy, Cat realizes, from a week ago that had dropped a heart into a stomach with breathless precision.

“Yeah?” He hums, skittering forward on eager knees like he’s been summoned.

“Did you listen to the words?” Kara’s voice is gentle and knowing and the boy laughs with a nearly toothless shrug, happy and immediate with his response:

“Nope!” 

“See? Nope.” Kara’s smile is lopsided to match and Cat feels her chest warm as she slides just a little closer as a the girl just keeps playing chords, the children sagging further and further into the floor and halfway through the third song, Cat’s head falls down to a surprisingly-strong shoulder, humming along.

And somewhere underneath the quiet, musical strums of a guitar and a gentle, loving voice and a pile of sleeping _orphans_ , Cat Grant realizes that this is what she’s going to remember about tonight. Not the nearly dying or the endless hunt or the sleepless night spent at her desk…

It will be the moment Kara once more tangles their fingers when all the children are asleep to guide her out of the room into the hall, depositing a guitar in the backroom before reaching into a bag—

A bag that Kara must have left here before she found Cat. Why had she left the orphanage, at all—when did she hear her scream? She had said she was on her way, not--

—and materializes a foil-wrapped hamburger, watching as precise fingers take great pains to break it evenly before casually hopping onto a nearby bench, the hot air sinking between them as Cat slowly sits down next to her.

Kara’s knees tuck up on the worn wood, taking a happy (impressively large) bite of the burger, eyebrows raising as she waits for Cat to follow suit.

“How long has this been sitting here?” Eyes slit and she doesn’t like how familiar Kara is when she teases—

“What are you, a germaphobe?” But she raises up her burger in gesture and promise, “Not long. You’ll be okay, really.”

There's that insufferably bright beam (like how moonlight  _should be_ ) when Cat hesitantly takes a bite—and then immediately another, because she’s suddenly positive she hasn’t eaten at all, today—that beam trembles into something a little gentler when an ex-editor’s hand reaches up to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of those smiling lips.

They share a slightly sheepish smile, settling on a rickety, hot bench in the back of an orphanage in the middle of the night after almost dying, but not, sharing a hamburger that's been sitting her for _God knows_ how long in content silence.

Cat knows, without a doubt, out of everything today--

She’ll remember this.

 

_I’ve looked at life from both sides, now_

_From up and down, and still somehow_

_It’s life’s illusions I recall_

_I really don’t know life at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Lois will come back.


End file.
